


A Study in Harry

by SlytherinsDragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Holmescest, Fluff, Gray!Harry, Harry has a happy childhood, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Parent!lock, Powerful Harry, potions lab shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: When Sherlock goes to examine a crime scene, he brings home a fascinating child. It changes things.





	1. Where Harry Met Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Combining my current ship and playing in a familiar Harry Potter shaped sandbox.

_Death was here._

Sherlock surveys over the wreckage, wand arm outstretched in a defensive manner. The Potter cottage – once undoubtedly once an idyllic location – lay in ruins; not only physically devastated, but all the defensive wards have shattered. Even the _Fidelius_.

The scent of Dark Magic permeates the air; it is simultaneously both rancid and intoxicating to Sherlock’s senses. On what is left of the wooden oak floor, near an intact sofa, the deceased James Potter is sprawled out. In his mind – Sherlock sees the reconstruction of the trajectory of the _Killing_ curse – the feared _Avada Kedavra_ – from where it left the wand of the perpetrator to where it hit – a little left of the sternum, over the heart.

A cliché target – Sherlock thinks.

The air particles still sizzle violently – echoing the power behind the magic that disrupted them.

_Potter caught unprepared – his wand lies on the sofa cushions. The caster of the curse is probably around six feet tall – right handed – powerful. Perhaps the Dark Lord himself lifted a finger for this. Time of death – approximately thirty minutes ago._

As he continues to deduce the scene, a cry disrupts his analyses.

_A child – male._

Sighing, he tears himself from the intriguing scene; he knows he has very little time before someone – or rather the Order of the Phoenix would come marching in.

His brother is going to kill him – Sherlock has been tracking the _Killing_ curses being cast in England with a new enchantment that he has created for the purposes of his research. Typically, the _Apparition_ coordinates have led him to killings done by the Death Eaters – but this is the first time that Sherlock is positive that the Dark Lord himself had done the deed.

It had been a new project to keep him out of trouble. But then again, Sherlock muses darkly – _what did he know about staying out of trouble?_

He runs up the damaged staircase of questionable structural integrity and finds the nursery. The residual magic, when Sherlock steps into the room, nearly overwhelms him with its power. A dark-haired toddler is standing in the crib – his little pale hands clutching at the bars – looking rather like a tiny prisoner. He examines Sherlock solemnly with his green eyes – which are rimmed with red.

_The little boy had been crying._

The body of Lily Potter née Evans lies cold on the ground – her facial expression distorted by the _Killing_ curse. He sees two separate trajectories of the _Avada Kedavra_ here, followed by powerful blast of magic that he cannot identify – no doubt deflecting the curse.

_Hang on – deflecting the Killing curse?_

Sherlock almost dances on the spot with glee. But instead, he stands at the spot where the Dark Lord had stood and aims his wand, mentally reconstructing the scene. The first target had been Potter’s wife but the second had been the child.

 _Fascinating._ _Amazing._

“Yet, you are alive, little one.” Sherlock breathes in awe over the crib.

He frowns for three reasons. One – there were footprints in the room that belonged neither to him, Potter, Potter’s wife or the Dark Lord – they belonged to a man shorter than six feet. Somehow, Sherlock deduces, that the man was here before Sherlock, but after the Dark Lord had been present.

 _But for what purpose?_ _Most likely one of the Dark Lord’s minions._

The second was that there are no footprints in the dust indicating that the Dark Lord left the room. With his wand, Sherlock casts the latest footprint tracking spell that Auror Lestrade has shown him – confirming that his previous two deductions had been correct.

_Is the Dark Lord gone? As in dead? But where is his body – or has it been simply transformed due to the magic?_

And the third – there is a powerful piece of magic lodged in the little boy’s forehead – where a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt is located. It feels slimy and malevolent; it is unnatural. 

“But at what cost?” Sherlock asks himself, as he carefully files the details of this scene in his mind – he will later transfer his memories into a _Pensieve._ As fantastic his own eidetic memory is – he has taken a liking to storing important memories – just in case.

The boy, Harry – Sherlock finally remembers the name of the boy – looks again at him – this time with wide, innocent but brilliant green eyes.

 _A key to understanding the mess that happened here_.

The sound of footsteps approach; the steps of a man, and a half-giant.

 _Hagrid._ Sherlock’s mind supplies helpfully.

Impulsively, Sherlock picks up Harry and _disapparates_ without a sound.  

.

.

For the last few months, Sherlock has been living with his brother, Mycroft, after being evicted from his flat due to a spectacular Potions disaster that had destroyed all the protective wards that he had worked hard to set up in order to prevent such a situation. This was turning into a cycle; ever since Sherlock had graduated from Hogwarts, he would go live on his own for a few months to over a year – then something unpredictable would happen – and he would end up back at his brother’s abode. Carrying a well-behaved Harry in one arm, Sherlock strides into the house – where he is greeted by his big brother sitting elegantly in his armchair, still clad in his three-piece suit.

Mycroft grimaces, surveying both Harry and Sherlock with distaste. “Little brother, I did not know that you have taken an interest in sex. Let me guess, your friend Irene?”

Sherlock smirks amusedly – his brilliant brother has for once, jumped to an erroneous conclusion. He lets a modicum of condescension drip into his voice, “If you really think I had relations with a girl, brother, you really are slipping.” He makes a face that delights the little boy in his arms, “Besides, if you haven’t already deduced, we are both fabulously homosexual.” His free hand mimics the campiest gesture he could think of.

His brother then frowns at Harry, gesturing to the scar on his forehead. He observes, “Not very pleasant magic here.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “But, of fascinating interest.”

Mycroft looks appalled, “Sherlock, please don’t tell me you kidnapped the boy to examine his scar!”

“Don’t you know who this is, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, bouncing Harry in his arms – making him squeal.

“Why does it matter?” His brother lets out a long-suffering sigh, while beginning to remove his suit jacket.

“This is Harry Potter.” Sherlock says dramatically, manipulating one of Harry’s arms to mock wave at Mycroft. “His father and mother were killed earlier today – most likely by the Dark Lord – and left a most interesting crime scene with powerful magic residue.” He then adds thoughtfully, “I have never in my life, brother, felt magic so powerful. You know – he survived a _Killing Curse_.”

“And what does this have to do with us?” Mycroft asks, simultaneously loosening his spotted tie and running his other hand through his dark hair – making it stick up in an uncharacteristic mess that Sherlock probably enjoys more than he should.

“I think for the time being – brother – we should keep him. It’s not like he has any close relatives of note – aside from his mother’s muggle relatives.” Sherlock says, while employing the puppy-dog eyes on his brother.

His brother frowns when Sherlock mentions muggles in a dismissive tone – he knows that Mycroft has a hard time defining who he is; his brother is unable to cast his own magic – although he can participate in Wizarding travel methods – like by Floo or Portkey, drink and brew Potions and sense magic in the same special way that Sherlock can amongst other things. It is a truly unique situation – not quite a Squib but missing what most would consider essential for a wizard or a witch. And besides, Mycroft currently works for the non-magical British Government in an undisclosed role.

“At least until we find out what happened tonight – I think the Dark Lord might have finally met his end. Who knows, Mycroft – he could be good leverage for your job as the British Government – you always complain about the people at the Ministry – anyways.” Sherlock continues, while hugging Harry to his chest.

Sherlock knows his brother will capitulate.

“You have grown quite attached to the boy. Very quickly.” Mycroft surprisingly holds out his arms, and Sherlock drops Harry in them. “Hello, little one.” His brother says gently – in a voice that Sherlock is unaccustomed to hearing, while examining the boy. Mycroft’s fingers trace the scar – Sherlock could see his brother shiver at the exogenous magic lodged within Harry. The little boy is solemn in Mycroft’s lap, while his brother seems to be thinking – or perhaps even scheming. “I suppose you have nothing for his upkeep, little brother? Diapers? Food?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but Mycroft cuts in, “I will call Anthea – she will bring what Harry needs.” His brother then fixes his blue eyes upon Sherlock. “You do realize a child is an enormous responsibility, brother? Unlike some people in this household, I do have a job with regular hours to go to. You can’t just drop everything and leave as you are accustomed to.”

He can read additional information from his big brother’s expressive eyes that isn’t verbally said – _you can’t just leave_ _for any of Lestrade’s cases, Potions lab duties, and for recreational substances – both muggle and magical._

“I know.” Sherlock nods his head.

“Brother, I know you are dying to go unearth the happenings of the death of the Potters.” Mycroft suddenly changes the topic, “So, I will have what they would say – the first watch?”

“Thank you.” Sherlock lets the two seldomly used words in his vocabulary slip from his lips.

He runs back out of the house to _disapparate_ in the discreet nearby alleyway – his dark robes swishing dramatically behind him.

.

.

Mycroft is beginning to understand what exactly he has signed up for. Anthea, his efficient personal assistant and bodyguard – trained in both physical and magical disciplines – had arrived within thirty minutes of his phone call, bringing all the effects one needed to raise a toddler. And now, Mycroft has fecal matter smeared on his expensive shirt sleeve and on Harry’s heel, while Anthea walks him through the routine procedure of doing a diaper change. There is wiping and a primer on how to spot and avoid diaper rashes. There are even spells for diaper changes – but Mycroft would not be sharing those with his brother – he will let Sherlock have the unique experience of changing the diaper of a wiggly one-year-old Harry by hand.

One shirt change for himself and a bubble bath for Harry later under Anthea’s careful supervision – Mycroft is relieved to be back in his armchair. Anthea had just left, after giving Mycroft other detailed instructions on looking after a toddler. The little boy is curiously looking around while sitting in Mycroft’s lap, his hands busy with some coloured blocks that Anthea had brought.

Someone is bound to be looking for the Potter child – Mycroft is aware that Harry is the last member of the Potter family – an old wizarding lineage just as old as the Holmes family. And there is also the matter of a problem that he has been contemplating for some time now. Their inheritances – both his and Sherlock’s – would not be released until one of them coughs up an heir to continue the Holmes line. It is a requirement made by some long-forgotten ancestor after a realization that homosexuality runs in the family’s DNA. Mycroft had fervently hoped that the child that Sherlock had come home with earlier was biologically his – but, alas, his worst fears are correct – both himself and his little brother would never be able to get close enough to the opposite sex to produce an heir in the usual way.

So, the second option is a _Blood-Adoption_. The biggest obstacle has already been cleared – finding a suitable child for the role. Harry has a more than acceptable pedigree – not that Mycroft cared about blood purity – there is no evidence that muggleborn witches and wizards or half-bloods were inferior to purebloods – no matter how loudly some factions of the Wizarding world would proclaim and cry. And there is the added bonus that his little brother is fond of the child – despite all his posturing that he is only interested in Harry for researching magic. There isn’t even guarantees that Sherlock would even like a biological child! If Mycroft is correct, he suspects that his wayward little brother could benefit from a little responsibility. And there is a certain Gringotts goblin that owed Sherlock a favour or two from a previous case – it would be easy to set up everything. The blood would have to come from his brother – Mycroft does not want to taint Harry with his own magical disability. It would be best to do this soon, before people come looking for the little Potter heir.

And then, they would have to make sure their parents do not find out about the new Holmes heir – Mycroft has no desire to subject any child to them.

It was and still is frustrating at times – Mycroft never got to go to Hogwarts and living vicariously through his brother’s magical experiences would occasionally stir up feelings of unwanted envy. He adores his little brother and would never let something as trivial as jealousy taint their already somewhat difficult relationship.

And most of all, he despises the looks of pity that other wizarding folk give him once they learn of his condition.

He is not an incomplete human being just because he cannot perform magic – thank you very much.

Harry begins to cry, which makes Mycroft sigh loudly.

.

.

“Snape!” Sherlock calls out after he had _apparated_ to the one metre squared _Apparition point_ of the heavily warded laboratory – where he had finished his _Mastery_ in Potions a little over a year ago with the acclaimed Master Aymeri.

The place is tightly packed with black-topped lab benches with special resistant surfaces, Potions equipment and indoor plants that could be harvested for ingredients. There appears to be no one around. But Sherlock knows that Snape is always here, trying desperately to be the youngest Potions Master in British history – when he isn’t busy being the Dark Lord’s lackey.

Sherlock sneers at the thought.

The other apprentice – Forest Malfoy – is no where to be found. Probably the bastard Malfoy is in a bar somewhere trying to pick up some poor unsuspecting man or woman.

Malfoy isn’t fussy as long as his conquest has a pulse. Sherlock muses.

Sherlock climbs a rickety spiral staircase located in a dim corner, leading up to the space that they termed the Eyrie – Master Aymeri has a soft spot for Astronomy, and keeps a telescope up there.

As he had deduced, Snape was there, hunched over a battered wooden table – using a Runic brewing algorithm to plan out his brewing for the next day. His raven-feathered quill scratches efficiently at the parchment.

Startled, Snape looks up at Sherlock – his dark hair flutters at his abrupt motion.

“Lily Evans is dead.” Sherlock says in a hard voice.

Snape freezes, his pale skin becomes even more pale – a feat that Sherlock had once thought was impossible. The quill drops from his nerveless fingers, floating gently onto the surface of the warped table.

“No…” Snape shakes his head furiously, desperately trying to school his emotions. “It cannot be! How?”

“Your Lord killed her.” Sherlock continues in the same unsympathetic tone. “I was just at Godric’s Hollow, barely an hour ago. I saw her dead, cold body lying on the ground.”

Snape wouldn’t question him on that – he knows that Sherlock has been studying the _Unforgivable_ curses, and sneaks around crime scenes on a regular basis.

He watches coolly as Snape crumples in agony against the table.

Sherlock wonders if Snape would ask for it today – to invoke an agreement established between them. Technically Malfoy is part of it too – there seems to be a rule that nothing sexual can occur without the bastard. Master Aymeri wouldn’t mind – sexual congress amongst single lab mates have been a long-standing tradition in the Potions world. And Aymeri – despite being famous for being a forward-thinking Potioneer – enjoys the trappings of tradition. The agreement itself was the child of a batch of botched _Felix Felicis_ – the liquid luck potion – that predictably enough Malfoy had brewed and spiked their tea out of boredom over a year ago.

They had been sitting at the round table at the small kitchenette attached to the lab space downstairs, having afternoon tea. Malfoy’s _Felix Felicis_ had created a sense of surrealism that went hand-in-hand with an intense sensation of euphoria – not unlike some of the recreational drugs and Potions that Sherlock had indulged in previously.

He cringes inwardly at the conversation that had ensued.

Malfoy had started it – dressed somewhat casually in his usual expensive shirt – the grey silk that day – and dark jeans – his long silky dark hair tied back with a ribbon. Abraxas Malfoy had sired two sons – one legitimate, the other not so much – but with a woman he had loved – rather than the one he had married out of duty. From what he had understood, Abraxas had loved his child, and given Forest his last name – defying the usual traditions in regard to bastard children. It had caused an infamous scandal. Sherlock had gone to Hogwarts with both Malfoys – and the younger Forest was and still is the more charismatic and better looking of the two. Lucius currently hates his half-brother’s guts. And Forest despises anything to do with aristocracy and with the family that shunned him.

At the table, Forest had said with a countenance which indicated that he was up to no good, “So, Severus, Sherlock – are you two actually just going to die as virgins?” Malfoy then fixed his greenish-gold eyes upon Snape, “I know you aren’t having any since you have an unrequited crush on an unavailable Lily Potter.” He then turned to look at Sherlock with an insightful and smug knowing look, “And you aren’t having any – not because you are asexual – but you have confused feelings about someone else that is presumably unavailable.”

Sherlock had remembered thinking – how the fuck does Malfoy know? It is something that he had long buried in the depths of his mind and thrown away the key. Despite that, one thing led to another, and there may or may not have been a threesome later on in the night. At least someone – probably himself – had been self-aware enough to cast a charm to prevent the transmission of sexually transmitted diseases.

And he and Snape had been in a ‘with benefits’ situation since then.

Sherlock has also not willingly drunk anything else made by Malfoy since then.

It was an evening best forgotten.

Finally, minutes later, Snape looks up with an air of despair and devastation – and says – disrupting Sherlock from his visit down memory lane, “Fuck me, Holmes.”

The syllables are those of a broken man.

.

.

Sherlock has Snape against a wall in the Eyrie – his cock buried to the hilt in his mentee’s pale arse. He rocks his hips carefully – the last time they had fucked had been weeks ago.

“More.” Snape gasps out, pushing out his bum against Sherlock’s hips.

“Patience.” Sherlock grunts, “You will take what I give you, and not more.”

Their sexual relationship has several constant characteristics – Sherlock always tops – he has never bottomed for anyone before; Snape always instigates the sex and all their sexual activities take place in Aymeri’s lab.

“They promised.” Snape moans brokenly as Sherlock begins to fuck the apprentice with forceful thrusts.

“They…” Sherlock ponders, temporarily stilling his movements – a flash of insight then passes through his mind, “Fuck, Snape – you slut – did you go and promise your allegiance to someone else in exchange for her protection?” He further racks his brain and makes another deduction. “Merlin forbid – Dumbledore? And while you did that – you begged the Dark Lord to spare her life?”

The silence that follows, besides the ambient noises of the room, the sounds of Sherlock’s pelvis slapping into Snape’s bum and their increasingly laboured breathing, is telling enough.

“You idiot! People don’t play both sides and live – you do realize this?” Sherlock emphasizes his point with brutal thrusts.

“Maybe I don’t want to live.” Snape says brokenly, moaning between the syllables.

“Well, that’s not for you to decide anymore. When we are done, you will tell me everything, Severus.” Sherlock carefully pants out each syllable, as the tension of orgasm begin to coil in his loins. “I am going to come; you do whatever you need to.”

Uncaring of Snape’s pleasure – Sherlock fucks the apprentice with only the thought of his own orgasm. He knows intuitively that Snape wants to be used tonight – to be punished for his own failures to protect the woman that he had loved the most. He bites down roughly on Snape’s shoulder when he climaxes, ejaculating deep into his passage. The pain, interestingly enough, triggers Snape’s own orgasm – the fluid squirts against the wall.

Sherlock deduces that Snape has a submissive streak – a man who ties himself in servitude to two masters certainly must have one. But then again, he already knows that from their previous sexual encounters.

When the post-coitus fog starts to clear from Sherlock’s mind, he instinctively reaches for Snape’s left shirt sleeve – undoes the cuff and rolls it up – revealing the _Dark Mark_ at the crook of his inner arm. It has faded a lot and has taken on a blurred appearance on the pale skin in comparison to when Sherlock had seen it last. He lets his fingers rest against the mark – the magic, which is far less nasty than the piece lodged in Harry, has weakened tremendously.

“The Dark Lord…” Sherlock finds himself voicing his deductions out loud, “Is not vanquished – nor is he dead. No – he is much weakened. Barely alive. Something anchors him to this plane of existence – he has lost the mortal transport that once housed his soul. The _Avada Kedavra_ was reflected back upon himself tonight.” He looks meaningfully at a stunned Snape. “But the Dark Lord isn’t the only one who survived this night. No – Lily’s son is still very much alive – Severus.” Sherlock deliberately uses Snape’s given name. “And you will help me keep him that way. Remember who taught you the dual arts of _Legilimency_ and _Occlumency_.” It had been him – when he had became Snape’s Potions mentor, on behalf of Master Aymeri. “You will tell me absolutely everything that you know – and you will use your unique position to make sure Lily’s son grows up happy and healthy – unencumbered by any nonsense that Dumbledore, the Dark Lord or any other fool has in store for him. Do you understand?”

Sherlock himself is amazed at the words that come out of his mouth; it is safe to say that he feels sentiment for the intriguing boy he has brought home from Godric’s Hollow. And, somehow – he senses that his big brother has plans to keep Harry as well – something to do with their inheritances.

Snape, who is slumped bonelessly against the wall, weakly nods at Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclosure:  
> Forest Malfoy is a character from an old fanfic (The Inbetween) I wrote over seven? years ago that I never finished. It's posted under Slytherin's Dragon on fanfiction.net. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Where Severus Commits to Harry's Well-being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is an interrogation, some Malfoy drama and a nightmare.

In the kitchenette, Sherlock uncharacteristically brews two cups of tea. He uses Aymeri’s precious aromatic matcha teabags that had been brought back from Japan; an interrogation, Sherlock figures, is a special enough occasion to risk the Potions Master’s ire. He places the blue-white oriental-patterned porcelain saucer bearing its matching teacup with a loud clatter in front of a listless Snape – who winces at the noise. Bringing his own tea, Sherlock pulls out the wooden chair on the opposite side. He sinks into the chair and takes a delicate sniff of the steaming tea, before taking an appreciative sip.

Snape’s greasy dark hair is in disarray from the sex. There are lines on his sallow face that make him look older than his twenty-one years of existence on the planet. Sherlock can read the tale of regret and woe on Snape’s slumped posture and features. One of many ensnared by dreams of power and fortune by the Dark Lord. Sherlock’s Hogwarts years had barely overlapped with Snape’s, but he had deduced that Snape had been someone who had been bullied and teased; a prideful someone who had come from nothing. And when the Dark Lord came calling – no doubt admiring all of Snape’s talents in dueling, Potions and creating curses – the boy, or hardly a man at that point – had been easily seduced.

After all, genius does require an audience.

Sherlock turns his attention to the magic; in magical locations such as _Diagon Alley_ or even in the laboratory, there is a background level of vibrating magic that Sherlock has long learned to tune out. In every witch and wizard – including his own brother – there is a fount of magic that resides within the body – referred to as the core by many. Sherlock himself isn’t fond of the term – magic flows and perfuses an organism’s entire being – it is not concentrated in some specific location. But then again, the ability to sense magic is limited to a handful of individuals – such as to certain members of the Holmes clan. He intentionally perceives Snape’s magic – it is of respectable density – and of course – there is the substantially weakened parasitic Dark Mark that resides within his left arm. There is no sign of any active or residual _Imperius_ curses or compulsion charms on Snape’s person indicating that any recent decisions that Snape has made were of his own volition.

Snape finally looks up while lethargically extending his arm to reach for the teacup. He asks – his dark eyes scrutinizing him, “Are you using _Legilimency_ on me, Holmes?”

“Nope.” Sherlock grabs a ginger nut off the plain white plate at the centre of the table. “No need.” He nibbles at the treat and meets Snape’s eyes with his. “I know you, Snape. You will talk. And I will know…” The rest of the biscuit disappears noisily between Sherlock’s lips. “If you are lying to me or not. White or false.” He permits himself a smile; it has more teeth than charm.

His mentee looks away from him, breaking the eye contact. Snape hesitates, before firmly adding his own deduction. His voice grows stronger with each syllable. “You have _her_ child. He who beat the Dark Lord at his game.” Snape then looks in awe. “The prophecy… it came true!”

Sherlock says grimly, “The Dark Lord will be back.” He processes Snape’s awestruck words and asks sharply while leaning forward, “What prophecy? Tell me.”

Snape takes a moment to think. The words come tumbling out, “I was at Hog’s Head – and I overheard a conversation between Trelawney – she was interviewing for the Divination professorship at Hogwarts –“

A snort of disdain is emitted by Sherlock – he couldn’t suppress it. It is certainly a subject that he would not touch with a barge pole during his days at Hogwarts.

“And then, her voice changed – Trelawney – she went into what you would call a trance. And I heard: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies’. And like the fool I was, and probably still am…” There is a self-deprecative and reproachful tone in Snape’s voice, “I ran to the Dark Lord as soon as Dumbledore’s brother, the barkeep – Aberforth, threw me out – he caught me eavesdropping, you see.” Snape buries his forehead in his palms in grief. “I… I didn’t stop to think. Merlin. The prophecy could have referred to two boys – you see. The Longbottom’s son and _her_ son. But – he chose _her_ son. If only I knew… if only…”

Sherlock finds himself awkwardly patting Snape’s hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner. This is not his area – comforting the grieving.

“There must have been more to the prophecy…” A flash of insight crosses Snape’s eyes after several minutes had passed. “Bloody Aberforth threw me out before she said the entire thing.”

“Could you not find out, Severus?” Sherlock asks gently, helping himself to another ginger nut – Merlin, he loves those damned biscuits. “It would be beneficial to know what we are dealing with. Data – that’s what we need.”

“What do you intend to do with _her_ child?” Snape suddenly looks suspicious. “You do realize, Dumbledore will come looking for him – the child.”

“If my deductions are correct – we intend to raise him as the next Holmes heir.” Sherlock decides it is safer to go with the truth. He needs Snape on his side. “I think it is a better future than the one that Dumbledore would set for him. No doubt Dumbledore would wield young Harry as a pawn for whatever mad scheme he has in mind. And he is certainly a brilliant enough wizard to assemble all the pieces and deduce that the Dark Lord is merely weakened – not truly vanquished as the prophecy says the little boy is capable of doing. No – this sordid business is nowhere near finished. Mycroft and I will raise him like a son – and he will have every advantage that we can give him. And can you imagine the headlines of the _Prophet_ – they would call him something ridiculous – like the boy-who-lived or some rubbish.”

Snape actually cringes.

Sherlock continues, “This way, no one will know where Harry Potter has gone – and he will be able to live with anonymity – which is a much healthier way to grow up – I would imagine.”

“But you will have to hide him from Dumbledore… who I imagine will be beginning a search soon. He would probably want to break the news to me.” Snape replies.

“We will take care of it.” Sherlock says firmly. “You – my glutton for servitude – are going to bust out your best acting and your best _occlumency_ shields. You are going to pretend you do not know that Lily Potter is dead, and that her son is missing. And… you will do what you can to play the role of the man that lost the love of his life and her son while squeezing as much information out of Dumbledore.”

“Why should I do this for you, Holmes?” Snape’s voice is hard. “I –“

Sherlock cuts in, “If you loved Lily Evans at all, Snape – would you not want to ensure that her son lives a happy and safe life? You know – while I was standing in the nursery – where it all happened… it is pretty clear that the Dark Lord did not kill her right away unlike what he did with her husband. If I had to guess – and I despise guessing – the Dark Lord wished to keep his promise to you – and asked her to step aside so he could kill her boy. But, of course she didn’t, she loved her son. And you know, when I saw Harry looking up at me from his crib – he has the most curious green eyes – they resemble that of –“

“Enough!” Snape stands up from the table and drains the all the tea from his cup, before slamming the teacup down on the saucer, making Sherlock wince at the sound. “I will do it. It will be my atonement for my sins.”

“What sins?”  

Both Sherlock and Snape whip their heads around to see Forest walking into the kitchenette. There is surprisingly, a dark-haired tiny bundle – wrapped in an expensive dark green blanket, in Forest’s arms. Unlike the usual confident air that Malfoy usually projects, the man’s back is slightly hunched, and he seems to have aged a decade since Sherlock had last laid eyes on him, which happened to be yesterday.

It does not take much for Sherlock to deduce what happened to Forest.

“Merlin… You impregnated some woman.” Snape manages to speak first.

“Someone of high social standing – and filthy rich.” Sherlock adds his own deduction – the detailed and animated folklore scenes embroidered on the blanket wrapped around the toddler is traditional amongst the wizarding elite.

He and Mycroft would have to get Harry such a blanket as well.

Forest sits down and readjusts the sleeping boy in his arms. He looks defeated. “Not just anyone – bloody Amaryllis Zabini. Merlin – I have lived a life in hedonistic sin, and this is the price I must pay.”

“No…!” Snape looks absolutely shocked.

“The black widow!” Sherlock exclaims – the wealthy rich husbands of Mrs. Zabini have been disappearing under odd circumstances over the past years and no one could ever prove any sign of foul play. Even Sherlock had poked around the case files one day when he had been bored – and found nothing. “Is she not married to husband number four?”

“Yes – and she has passed off little Blaise here as her current husband’s son.” Forest says grimly, “She informed me today with the paternity test via owl. And when we met earlier on in the day, she said that if I wanted to be in my son’s life – I could only do so in the capacity as an Uncle.”

“Well, she certainly has not given birth to any children with her last three husbands.” Sherlock muses, “I wonder if you have been played, Malfoy. She wanted Malfoy blood in her future offspring – but can’t have your half-brother.”

Forest winces at Sherlock’s words, but straightens himself out; he is rather used to being at the end of Sherlock’s blunt deductions after a year of working together.

“Does she expect child support from you?” Snape asks somewhat delicately.

“Certainly not… or her husband would find out. And that will be another scandal in itself.” Forest sighs loudly and slaps the surface of the table with his free hand. “I wanted children – but certainly not like this. And I was careful and took every precaution!”

Sherlock allows himself a little sardonic grin, “Well, Malfoy – at least you didn’t marry her!”

Forest shudders, “God forbid – and stop calling me by my surname, Sherlock! It makes me think that you are referring to my half-brother!”

Snape gets up to brew Forest a cuppa, using a third teabag from Aymeri’s precious stash.

.

.

Little Harry cries inconsolably in the dead of night.

Mycroft has tried everything – such as offering food, a bottle of warmed milk, lullabies and pacing the hallways with the toddler in his arms. He is at his wits’ end – a problem that he does not have an immediate solution for. It is an unsettling and unique situation for him to be in.

“Please, please, please – stop crying.” He rocks Harry gently in his arms.

He doesn’t blame the poor boy – Harry has undoubtably witnessed some traumatic events earlier that he could not understand and of course, he is missing his parents who were probably better parents than the ones he and Sherlock have.

A sigh of relief escapes him when he hears the warning chimes of someone efficiently dismantling the wards at the front door – Sherlock has returned. The wards only permitted Mycroft to freely come and go – everyone else who was keyed into the wards had to do a little bit of magic to enter his domain. Only Sherlock and Anthea had that privilege.

Besides, no one else ever visited him at his private residence.

His little brother bounds up the stairs, his stylish and expensive cloak swishing behind him. The ever-observing eyes of Sherlock take in the scene. “Give him to me, brother.” His brother holds out his arms, and easily takes the crying toddler. “You should go to bed, Mycroft – it’s late, and you have work.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but wisely holds back a snarky retort. He is unaccustomed to this considerate variation of his brother. But, at the same time – he could deduce from Sherlock’s appearance that he has made some satisfactory progress in his investigation and that his brother had sex within the last few hours.

Overall, Sherlock is in an excellent mood.

As he watches his brother attempt to soothe the child with uncharacteristic gentle words, Mycroft finds himself mulling over the fact that Sherlock had sex. This is the first time he has caught his brother with traces of the act on his person. Mycroft is aware that Sherlock is a healthy adult male in his mid-twenties and is free to fuck whoever he likes – but somehow it bothers him more than it logically should.

He wonders who his brother had intercourse with.

“Brother, should you not head off to bed?” Sherlock eyes him suspiciously – Harry’s crying has diminished in volume, but the toddler is still distressed.

“Oh, I took tomorrow off –“ Mycroft forcefully derails his speculations on his brother’s sex life. “I was thinking that we ought to pay a visit to –“

“Gringotts?” Sherlock finishes the sentence – he has rearranged Harry so that the toddler could rest his head on his shoulder – at the risk of drool and tears dripping on the expensive cloak. “I should send a message to Ivar – so he knows to expect us.”

Mycroft follows his brother into the large guest bedroom that Sherlock has taken over. His brother pulls out a piece of expensive and thick black parchment, a raven-feather quill and a bottle of gold ink – all the stationary required for the writing of a formal letter – with his one available hand from a drawer.

_Dear Ivar,_

_I have an urgent matter that requires discussion – preferably today. If you can assist, I will happily consider your debts to me fulfilled and forgiven._

_;. May your sword stay sharp! .;_

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

“Hm… Brother, have you been learning Gobbledegook?” Mycroft looks curiously over the strange characters in the second last line, just before Sherlock had signed his name.

Sherlock shrugs, before whistling a few notes. He then explains, “I’ve been doing jobs for the goblins in the last two years – they pay generously, and they have interesting problems. It pays to know the language your clientele speaks, Mycroft – as you should know.”

A black-feathered falcon swoops dramatically into the room – Dragomir – Sherlock’s Messenger. Mycroft knows that Dragomir had been a reward for a case involving a Croatian magical creatures dealer – traditionally, the Messengers have been used by the European elite for the delivery of highly sensitive material. These magical birds cannot be intercepted by any known means, unlike owls.

The large and vicious grey talons of the bird clatter loudly on the solid wood of the desk. Mycroft watches as Sherlock wordlessly summons his wand from the enchanted and concealed holster he wears on his person, taps the parchment twice, causing it to roll up and become sealed with red wax – bearing the Holmes crest. His brother fondly ruffles the feathers of the large bird of prey before pressing the scroll into Dragomir’s talons.

“For Ivar – Keeper of the Keys at Gringotts.” Sherlock enunciates every syllable carefully, before moving to the nearest window. With a lazy flick of his wand, the window opens.

The falcon promptly flies out, blending in with the dark skies.

“Harry has fallen asleep.” Mycroft observes after Sherlock shuts the window by hand.

“He is exhausted – cried himself to sleep. It has been a very long day.” Sherlock explains. “He was crying because of a nightmare, brother.”

Mycroft envies his brother’s ability to perform _Legilimency_ – the art of exploring other people’s minds – or what could be crudely described as mind-reading. Sure, he is an expert at deducing people from their external appearance and their behaviours, but that is nothing compared to the information his brother can obtain. On the other hand, Mycroft has learned _Occlumency_ with the help of a textbook that Sherlock has lent him and of course, practical practice with Anthea.

It is frustrating – figuring out what he can and cannot do.

“I saw what he saw.” Sherlock says quietly. “Although, I cannot make out the conversation between Harry’s mother and the Dark Lord – he’s too young to perceive and understand that – but it is clear from her actions that she pleaded for Harry’s life. Then there is laughter, followed by jets of green light – the _Killing curses_ – and a powerful blast of magic that I cannot identify – and the Dark Lord disappears; his body appears to have vapourized. A while later – hard to tell based on Harry’s memories – another man shows up. Brown haired, balding, fair-skinned – actually walked over to the crib to have a look at Harry before bending down towards the floor – if my deduction is correct, he probably took away the Dark Lord’s wand and whatever else the magic spared. I don’t recognize him, but I think the people who went to Hogwarts after me may know him. I will ask around later. And then I came in.”

“I wish I could do more to help, brother.” Mycroft feels useless about the entire situation. “I was thinking we could do the blood adoption; Harry is an orphan with no wizarding relatives left. So, everything would be perfectly legal, from what I understand about _Wizarding Law_. And we will use your blood – Sherlock.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Mycroft.” Sherlock is now looking out from the same window that Dragomir had flown out of. “But it does not have to be my blood, you know.”

“It has to be yours.” Mycroft says, “I do not want to potentially compromise Harry’s magic with my own deficits.”

Sherlock turns to look him, his gaze sharp, “You don’t have any deficits, big brother – aside from being an overbearing and overprotective arse at times – but I think that falls within the acceptable parameters of being an annoying older brother. And I highly doubt your magical problem is genetic – I sense the magic that perfuses your very being – but for some reason, you cannot harness it and use it as you will. But if you want me to be the donor, then I will do so. But understand that if Harry becomes an unmitigated snarky arse when he grows up with a penchant for trouble, you cannot blame me.”

Mycroft smiles wryly, surprisingly touched by his brother’s words, “I am rather used to dealing with the trouble caused by snarky arses, brother.”

“I think we should all go to bed if we plan to make a trip to _Diagon_ tomorrow, brother. We can even stop at Fortescue’s ice cream parlor – I know how much you like his chocolate ice cream with the nuts.” Sherlock grins widely, “And I want a sundae. And, I am sure Harry would appreciate some as well – I don’t think he’s had ice cream before.”

“No weight jokes, brother? Have you been abducted by aliens and replaced?” Mycroft quips – he feels as if he has entered the twilight zone; his brother has never been so considerate in his adulthood.

Sherlock just shakes his head gravely – there is a faint blush on his cheeks.

But he does not say anything, simply content to hold Harry against his torso, and look out at the clear night sky.

Mycroft is completely unsure on how to interpret his brother’s unusual behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. <3 and the support!
> 
> Legend:  
> Underlined words - taken directly from JK Rowling.  
> ;. .; - words spoken in Gobbledegook (the language of the goblins).


	3. Where Harry Becomes a Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Harry becomes a Holmes.

Mycroft follows behind his little brother, carrying little Harry in his arms – wrapped snugly in an old Ravenclaw blue soft cotton blanket that had once belonged to Sherlock. His little brother looks dashing today – clad in his modern-cut dark cloak and a bespoke set of gray dress robes which partially covered the perfectly fitted aubergine dress shirt and dark trousers.

A sword hangs across Sherlock’s back – the scabbard is bronze, etched in beautiful ornate carvings of medieval era designs, the handle black, bound with leather with a gleaming bronze coloured pommel stone – a single rune confers her name – _Promise_. It is goblin wrought – and an invaluable gift from one of Sherlock’s enormously grateful and wealthy goblin clients. It is a famous sword steeped in goblin-human folklore and history, and strategically proclaims the wearer as a friend of the mysterious goblins.

There is another goblin-crafted sword at home – _Lament_ – that has a controversial and bloody history – and has been passed down from their family. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had learned how to fight with this blade – one of the several traditional aristocratic arts expected of young wizards in pureblood families to learn.

But anyways, they are following Garyn, a young and efficient goblin with serious eyes and long braided hair who had been waiting for them at the foyer of _Gringotts_. Mycroft had been here numerous times before for both personal and official business – but even his formidable brain has not grasped the vast network of narrow meandering hallways and stairways of the goblin bank. Meanwhile, Sherlock seems to know exactly where they are going.

He, like Sherlock, is wearing a bespoke set of dress robes – his are a matte black – which cover his usual shirt and tie. Mycroft isn’t in the habit of wearing robes – but he didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb in _Diagon Alley_. Harry, who has a _glamour_ placed on his face – Sherlock’s magic – to prevent people from recognizing the child, quietly looks around, his green eyes taking in the curious new sights. The _glamour_ is a precaution; not many people have laid eyes on the Potter heir – but it never hurts to be careful.

They are eventually ushered into a roomy and homey looking office underground. The walls are stone, with a lit fireplace at the far side of the wall. Bookshelves fill the space, bearing books that span an eclectic range of subjects from languages, history, works of fiction and every other topic one could possibly think of. Mycroft would personally love to spend an afternoon here – just simply perusing the literature. An authentic Monet hangs on one of the walls, along with some oriental wall-hangings. The expensive matching furnishings in the room are exquisitely handmade from cherry wood. An antique globe sits at the corner of a formidable desk, while a mess of documents lay scattered over the surface. A golden name plate bears the legend: _Ivar – Keeper of the Keys_.

Mycroft knows Ivar – one of the most senior goblins that plays an essential part in the day-to-day operations of _Gringotts_ and whom Mycroft has sat at meetings with when discussing Muggle-goblin relations at his job which has no name. Obviously, the vast majority of Muggles are unaware that goblins exist – but there is a substantial economic relationship that is present. And in Mycroft’s opinion – goblins were the worst lot to deal with – they don’t trust easily; they are cunning; they read all the fine print and find elaborate loopholes for everything and even for Mycroft – they are rather cold individuals. Ivar himself is a shrewd negotiator.

Garyn motions for them to sit on the cherry wood chairs, before bowing and disappearing from the room. The chairs are hard; Mycroft knows it is a tactical choice – to get people out of the office as soon as possible.

One of the bookshelves swings forward, revealing Ivar.

His brother utters a harsh sounding greeting.

Much to Mycroft’s surprise, Ivar actually smiles – a sight that he has never seen. The middle-aged goblin has a shiny bald head and blue eyes that actually seemed to twinkle – Mycroft had only been on the receiving end of serious and calculating looks from the goblin. Ivar exchanges a few words with Sherlock in Gobbledegook, before turning his attention to Mycroft. His impeccable English flows casually.

“And, Mycroft – Sherlock’s brother – a pleasure as well. Perhaps, a drop to wag the tongue?”

Before either Sherlock or he could respond, Ivar has walked over to a bookcase, removed a pair of books and returned back to the desk with a bottle of luxurious _Firewhiskey_ from 1972 and three tumblers. Ivar levitates the glassware and conjures three coasters with a lazy flick of his fingers before gently lowering the glasses onto the table.

“Sherlock knows about my whiskey preferences, Mycroft.” Ivar explains as he decants a few fingers worth into each tumbler. “I can tell that you are a fellow whiskey enthusiast – and 1972 was indeed an exceptional year.”

Is this reality? Mycroft wonders as he takes the offered glass and has a sip. Like all good _Firewhiskey_ , there is a burning sensation, with a complex and tasty aftertaste. And this one is particularly decadent. A goblin sharing such an extravagant vintage with human beings? What did Sherlock do for this goblin, anyways? Save his first-born child?

“This is excellent. Thank you.” Mycroft reverts to his diplomatic replies.

Ivar actually winks at him.

“Anyone close to Sherlock is a friend of mine – Mycroft.” Ivar says, as if deducing his thoughts. “We are very grateful for your brother’s expertise – he has solved some notable problems that have greatly troubled and vexed us over the last year. Saved us many a scandal in a discreet manner.”

Clearly, his brother had been taking high-level cases that Mycroft had absolutely no idea about. He is rather impressed by Sherlock’s accomplishment – well to be fair Mycroft had been always fixated on his brother’s failures – and not by choice. They take several moments to enjoy the drinks, before Ivar speaks, “So, I take it that whatever brought you in here today has to do with the boy on Mycroft’s lap, correct?”

Sherlock draws his wand and taps once on Harry’s shoulder. The _glamour_ disappears.

“We are interested in doing a Blood Adoption.” Sherlock replies, while draining the last of his whiskey. “This is the Potter –“

Ivar’s eyes widen; he laughs charmingly, “Oh my! I saw it in the _Prophet_ today! James and Lily Potter – dead; son is missing; the Dark Lord vanquished! I was discussing this with Hurst earlier today. I bet him twenty galleons that someone else ran off with the Potter child – and here we are! It is traditional – you know – for old pureblooded families to blood-adopt orphan heirs to consolidate wealth and power. Certainly, I did not expect you two to show up – but quite understandable considering the circumstances of your family’s legacy. But, of course, everything is legal and valid to pursue such a route.” Ivar thinks for a long moment before continuing, his long fingers stroking his clean-shaven chin. “Of course, the first step is to verify the boy’s lineage.”

From a drawer, Ivar pulls out an ordinary looking parchment, along with an ornate silver dagger. Mycroft watches as Sherlock carefully removes Harry’s blanket. The toddler, who had been quiet all morning – seems to sense that something is afoot and starts clinging tightly onto Sherlock, burying his little face into Sherlock’s robes. Resolutely, Sherlock detaches Harry from his clothes, and settles him down on the desk, which Ivar has pushed some of his papers off to the side to make space.

Harry scrunches his eyes, while his brother lightly strokes the child’s back. “Only a prick, Harry.” Sherlock whispers soothingly. With a small but elaborate flick of his wrist, Sherlock transfigures the three whiskey tumblers into stuffed animals – an Irish Setter, a tiger and white-furred rabbit with his wand. It is a timely distraction technique, done just as Ivar gently takes Harry’s hand, quickly nicks a finger and presses the wounded digit to the parchment. Too distracted by the stimuli, Harry hardly realizes what Ivar had done. Delicate red lines start spreading throughout the parchment, turning into a detailed family tree that spans generations. His brother conjures a tissue and lightly presses on Harry’s finger, stopping the bleeding.

“Curious, curious…” Ivar examines the genealogy. “Indeed, Harry is the heir to the Potter family, but did you know that the Evans family is descended from wizarding folk? A thousand years’ worth of squibs – the most recognizable great ancestor was Salazar Slytherin himself.”

“Ah, a true heir of Slytherin.” Sherlock says as Mycroft leans forward to examine the tree.

“Indeed.” Ivar nods as he rummages through another drawer. The goblin pulls out another vial of clear liquid and a glass. “Blood is needed from the donor – it will make young Harry one-third biologically yours or your brother’s depending on whose blood we utilize.”

Sherlock grabs the dagger without hesitation and slashes at his wrist, letting blood drip from his basilic vein. His brother squeezes his forearm proximal to the wound, forcing more blood to pour into the glass. Before the blood could coagulate, Ivar decants the clear solution into the glass. When a suitable amount had been obtained, Ivar grabs the glass, swirls it clockwise and recites a long incantation in the coarse syllables of Gobbledegook. The contents of the glass change from red to blue. When Ivar finishes, he passes the glass to Sherlock, who gently coaxes Harry to open his mouth. The contents are tipped in and disappears as soon the liquid touches Harry’s mucus membranes.

“The deed is done.” Ivar states solemnly. “You both know this – probably, but I will say it regardless. The potion – will gradually take effect as Harry grows. The effects are unpredictable, in the sense that you never know exactly what to expect with a biological child. But, Holmesian blood runs through this little boy’s veins now – and he is now a Holmes as well as a Potter. Presumably, if you are passing off Harry as your own child, perhaps a name change may be necessary?”

“Name him Harry Xavier Holmes – I am aware that Albus Dumbledore is looking for him, and that should be adequate. He will be free to assume his original name, if he wishes, when he comes of age.” Sherlock says.

Other business matters are discussed. They decide to remove Harry’s name from the Hogwarts registration books for now – so Dumbledore wouldn’t be able to track Harry from that. They also seal off all the Potters’ vaults, freezing access to anyone that is not Harry – aside for the money to be distributed in accordance to James Potter’s will – but, the bulk of the immense wealth is to stay with Harry regardless. It wasn’t like they needed money – with the adoption of Harry, some of the sizable inheritances due to both Mycroft and Sherlock would now be made available to them.

And of course, Ivar reassures them that _Gringotts_ would not be sharing the secret of Harry’s adoption and whereabouts with anyone.

Finally, when everything is finished, Ivar walks them out of _Gringotts_ – sharing amusing anecdotes of interesting things he has done and seen since he had started working for bank. Mycroft smiles slightly when Ivar says to Sherlock before they part ways, “Don’t be a stranger – please come back and visit!”

.

.

A surreal sense of déjà vu fills Mycroft as he watches his little brother take a large amount of decadent ice cream from the enormous ice cream sundae with strawberry syrup made by Fortescue and shoves it in his mouth with a sigh of pleasure. Sherlock then takes a smaller portion and feeds it to Harry. The little boy – or rather Mycroft’s nephew now – chirps in delight at his first taste of the creamy treat.

Many years ago, it had been Mycroft who had brought Sherlock to _Diagon Alley_. He had bought Sherlock his first wand, before his brother had gone off to Hogwarts. Before Sherlock had been the difficult and bored young adult, they would come sit at this exact spot and share ice cream at least a few times a year. His little brother had looked at him as if he had been the sun then; Mycroft himself for all his brilliance has no idea what had changed over the years.

Time?

Distance?

Living in two separate worlds?

He helps himself to his own small cup of chocolate ice cream with the nuts. It is as heavenly as he remembers it was.

“What in Merlin are you thinking about, brother?” Sherlock asks as he lets Harry play with the permanently transfigured stuffed tiger that had once been a glass tumbler.

“Just woolgathering.” Mycroft says while thinking about the bizarreness of the situation.

The Holmes brothers – playing happy families. He sincerely hopes this would last – and that Sherlock wouldn’t relapse – either from those damned drugs and/or potions or to his brattish ways. But, his brother looks calm today – he is sitting up straight for once – looking handsome in his tailored clothes. And the tenderness that Sherlock has for little Harry warms his own heart. Mycroft has an urge to run his hand through the soft and too-long curls on Sherlock’s head – just as he has done when his brother had been a child. God – he mindfully stops his trail of thoughts here. It would not do at all to scare his little brother off with his own inappropriate thoughts! Especially when it seems like they are going somewhere in mending their brotherly relationship.

Plus – Sherlock is having sexual relations with someone else these days. Mycroft automatically despises them on principle – whoever they are.

Sherlock gives a skeptical raise of the eyebrow.

But before he could reply, they are interrupted.

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft groans when two women walk up to his brother. Adler and Hooper. Two of Sherlock’s fellow Ravenclaws. Both with unrequited crushes on his evidently gay little brother. Fuck, that means he has more in common with these two nuisances than he would ever had liked.

“Irene, Molly.” Sherlock replies tersely, before the two women begin to fawn all over little Harry.

“Is he yours?” Hooper gushes – there is an undercurrent of jealousy in her words.

“Or your brother’s?” Adler inquires.

“He’s adorable!” Hooper coos, “What is your name – cutie?”

What has he done to deserve this torture? Mycroft wonders – trying his best to tune out the rest of the conversation. Even waterboarding sounds like a better way to go… Or the _Cruciatus_.

“He’s ours.” Sherlock says firmly, in a tone that dissuades further questioning. “And his name is Xavier.”

Mycroft fights hard to keep a grin from ruining his impassive countenance.

_Ours._

.

.

“You have one too, Holmes?” Snape shoots Sherlock a mocking glance as he walks into the lab space with Harry in his arms – now wrapped in a traditional, ridiculously soft and warm black blanket with animated designs of gold thread. The Holmes crest is embroidered somewhere on the fabric.

Sherlock knows that Snape knows that he is carrying the Potter heir, but the words are for the benefit of Forest – who is sitting at his side of the lab bench along with his best friend – Edward Winters – another pureblooded aristocrat who has dropped by to visit. Edward at least is the sane one out of the pair – most of the time. He is married to a Gryffindor despite his seven years in Slytherin and is slowly assuming all the duties of his ailing father – Lord Winters.

He will have to be careful here – Edward has no allegiance to any side and does possess a brain.

“Tis the season to have children pop up – apparently.” The long and blond-haired Edward chuckles gently – his dark eyes scrutinize Harry with shrewd interest. “My own son Henry is around the same age as Forest’s hellspawn and yours – it seems. And I say hell – because anything with those Zabini genes is bound to be trouble.”

“Oi! That’s my son you are talking about!” Forest looks mock-angrily at Edward who just simply gives a royal wave.

“Double trouble – considering that Zabini has your genetics as well.” Snape snipes. “And you should spend less time chatting and more time tending to that Wolfsbane of yours. Lupin is due soon.”

Forest shrugs. “My Wolfsbane is always immaculate – Severus – you know that! And, this time I added a little tweak to the base. Maybe Sherlock can stay and watch Remus when he changes – you can tell me how the magic has changed.”

“You owe me.” Sherlock says as Harry plays with the collar of his shirt.

Forest looks at him suggestively.

“Merlin – not everyone can be bought with sex!” Sherlock groans with mock distaste. Forest wasn’t a terrible shag, but he is really not in the mood. Not to mention that Harry is here today. He reaches for a cabinet to pull out an _Ache-Reliever_ – a Potions equivalent of paracetamol.

And drains the small vial in one go.

He then sits at his own bench space and pulls out a drawer of metallic blue underneath the black resistant table surfaces. He rummages in it with his free hand, while Harry is looking curiously at the bubbling cauldrons on Forest’s and Snape’s benches. Sherlock pulls out a hardcover notebook and looks at a magically updating chart to see what potions needed to be brewed in the next week. He claims a few that would take a short time to finish.

“And, I thought you would be a wee bit more careful in where you stick that prick of yours.” Edward says with amusement. “I’ve been telling you this for eons.”

“I’ve given up on women. I can’t exactly impregnate a man, can I – Edward?” Forest’s sarcasm drips thickly into his words.

“Well, tell me if you do, Malfoy.” Snape says – half seriously and mockingly, “I want to write it up and send it for publication. At least you would be of use – then!”

“Did you all hear about the murder of the Potters?” Edward changes the topic of conversation before another round of witty remarks could be had. He turns to Snape, “And I am so sorry – I know how Evans meant to you…”

“It’s all in the past now, Winters.” Snape replies tersely, tension apparent in his jaw.

“And the Dark Lord is gone.” Edward continues. “I figured. My family has always appreciated the position of neutrality – you see. It’s the same story every generation – different sides fighting it out under different ideologies, but at the end of the day – you want to be alive. What use is power when you are dead?”

“Ah yes – the forward-long-term-thinking Winters philosophy.” Forest sighs. “Well, my idiot half-brother isn’t exactly one for delayed gratification –“

“At the end of the day, Forest – it’s all about power.” Edward says seriously. “People join for that. Impurity of blood – that’s just a pathetic excuse to exert power over a disadvantaged population –“

A warning chime stops the conversation.

“That’s Remus, I presume.” Forest jumps up from his stool and heads for the door – Edward following closely behind.

“Let’s go up to the Eyrie.” Snape takes advantage of the temporary absence of the two other men and puts stasis charms on all his cauldrons. “We can converse privately there, Holmes.”


	4. Where Severus Meets Harry for the First Time

“ _Muffliato._ ” Snape incants quietly as he waves his ebony wand.

At Sherlock’s raised inquisitive eyebrow, Snape explains with a hint of pride. “My own invention, Holmes. Anyone within earshot of us will hear an indiscernible and discreet buzzing noise. Just in case the three bumbling idiots from downstairs come looking for us.”

“Interesting…” Sherlock mentally makes a note of the charm for later use as he sits down on the battered old wooden chair located at the corner of the Eyrie, across from Snape. He reflexively readjusts the blanket around Harry.

Snape’s eyes settle on the precious bundle in Sherlock’s arms. The gaze is intense and filled with unfathomable emotion. “So, this is _her_ child…” Snape’s voice comes out as a hesitant whisper.

“Mine.” Sherlock amends, just as Harry shifts his neck to look at Snape with his distinctive green eyes.

“Allow me,” Snape gestures with a modicum of impatience, “to see the child.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock allows Harry to stand on the uneven tabletop that separates Snape and him, pulling up the blanket so that Harry isn’t stepping on it. He continues to hold one of Harry’s small pale hands. His son – what a thought! – is capable of standing but needs some support.

Sherlock observes as Snape’s dark eyes drink in the details of Harry hungrily. There is a complex mix of wistfulness, regret, sorrow and other emotions that Sherlock cannot elucidate. Sherlock has never loved another like how Snape had loved the mother of his child. Love – Sherlock has always thought – was a disadvantage. People – wizardkind, goblins and muggles – and even other species – Centaurs for example – did and will continue to do irrational things for love. His crime scenes and cases have shown him the darkest sides of love, passion and uncontrollable emotion over the last years.

He wonders what is going on in Snape’s mind right now.

Is he thinking of a parallel universe where Harry is his son?

“He is definitely her child…” Snape seems to be talking more to himself than to Sherlock. “The eyes… you were right, Holmes – they are exactly like hers. But – “ Snape frowns, “Almost everything else is from _him_.”

“Potter?”

Sherlock lifts Harry off the table, as the little boy lets out a tiny yawn. As he sits back down, he allows Harry to resettle himself in his arms. “Tired, are we?” Sherlock lets an iota of tenderness slip into his words. Harry makes a sound that resembles ‘mama’. He is aware that Harry is old enough to know words like mama, dada and other simple words – but verbally, he has been quiet since being taken from his crib at Godric’s Hollow. In his mind, he can imagine Lily Potter begging Lord Voldemort to spare her beloved’ son’s life – aided by images that he had seen from Harry’s mind with _Legilimency_. It is truly a distressing and depressing thought. Sherlock’s own parents had been quite content to allow the house elves to rear their children – any love that he had as a child came from them and – bloody hell – Mycroft! But, he has seen happier memories in Harry’s young brain – affection from both his parents. Scenes like a bedtime story and a kiss from his mother. Or, his father lifting Harry and spinning him around in circles in the air; his late father laughing and looking at his son with unrestrained fondness. Sherlock’s own heart – still present despite all his claims to the contrary – hurts. He feels an odd pang of affection arise deep in his chest – a truly novel feeling.

And as much as Snape might claim that Harry’s features are mostly Potter’s, Sherlock can start to appreciate the effects of the Blood Adoption manifest – there is a subtle change in Harry’s facial structure – slowly adding a Holmesian influence to Harry’s features.

“So… I spoke with Dumbledore today.” Snape’s words interrupt Sherlock’s thoughts. “Or rather – I was summoned.”

“And, what did the great one say?” Sherlock rocks Harry in his arms, trying to lull the tired boy to sleep.

“He asked me to ensure that Lily’s death was not in vain. That I will do everything in my power to protect her son.” Snape replies. “I may have scoffed a little at that point. Dumbledore took it to mean that I didn’t think that there was anyone around to harm _her_ boy, rather than my thinking that he has no bloody clue about the whereabouts of _her_ son. Dumbledore is confident that he will locate _her_ son in a matter of days if not a week or two.”

“A confident man, indeed.” Sherlock states.

“Dumbledore mentioned looking at the Hogwarts registry the night before – and he thinks he can trace the boy’s whereabouts from that.” Snape adds.

“It’s too late for that.” Sherlock says with amusement. “We removed Harry’s name from the book earlier today. The trail is dead.”

Snape’s eyes widen. “So, you did – adopt her son! When you said ‘mine’ earlier – you meant in actuality. Perhaps – a Blood Adoption.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies, “It makes sense, you see. Harry needs a family – we need an heir. It works out – perfectly. Now, Dumbledore cannot legally take Harry from us even if he does find out his whereabouts. But…” Sherlock furrows his brows in deep concentration. “What does Dumbledore intend to do if he gets his hand on my child?”

“He intends to place them with _her_ relatives.” Snape says with great distaste. “The muggles – _her_ sister and that ugly oaf a man. Something about blood wards or something… something about sacrificing her life to save her son.”

“But this is fascinating!” Sherlock exclaims – quietly – while his mind whirls with possibilities. “Of course!” He would have clapped his hands with glee if he wasn’t holding Harry. “It is technically magic which is part of the Dark Arts – a sacrifice is needed to obtain results.”

“People would disagree with your definition of the Dark Arts…” Snape says.

“But, you don’t.” Sherlock looks at Snape with knowing eyes. “You believe that there is a legitimate use for the Dark Arts – and I would agree with you – although it is a tool that should be used with utmost care. Anyways, the Dark Lord tells Lily Potter –“ Sherlock ignores Snape’s wince and continues mercilessly, “to step aside so he can kill the boy and nullify the prophecy of his demise – but, alas – he underestimates the power of Lily’s love for her son.” Sherlock pauses here for a moment – it is a piece of evidence of love’s power – and it had been able to thwart the deadliest of all curses. “Instead, she begs him to spare her son’s life at the expense of her own. And somehow, that evokes a powerful sacrificial magic, and permits the backfiring of the _Killing Curse_. And – Dumbledore thinks that the protection can be prolonged by exposing Harry to individuals containing Lily Potter’s blood. It is not farfetched – but it also means that Dumbledore agrees with me that the Dark Lord is indeed – not vanquished.”

“This sounds more like conjecture to me, Holmes…” Snape replies rather tonelessly.

“No, I don’t think so. My deductions should be sound, but I would happily entertain any evidence to challenge my theory. I’ve had the luxury of seeing the actual crime scene at Godric’s Hollow, the nightmares that Little Harry has had over the last night and your information. Did Dumbledore mention the prophecy? And is there anything else? I hope you did tell Dumbledore you intend to protect Harry?”

“Of course, I did!” Snape exclaims. “He is an excellent user of guilt. Just as you are, Holmes.” He looks at Sherlock wearily. “You both ought to have been sorted into Slytherin.”

“Just one of my many charms… Snape.” Sherlock smiles slyly.

.

.

When Sherlock heads back downstairs, he sees Lupin, Winters and Forest sitting around the kitchenette table drinking tea. The werewolf, in his usual shabby robes, looks extremely ill; there is a pallor to his cheeks and a gauntness to his features. It was normal for Lupin to look sickly before his monthly transformation; however, this is not his usual baseline.

Winters places one arm around Lupin’s shoulder.

“My condolences, Remus.” Winters says – his voice has the perfect amount of sympathy.

“I cannot believe it…” Lupin buries his face in his hands. “I lost everyone that I cared about in the last few days. James, Peter, Sirius, Lily – I cannot believe Sirius did that!”

“What – the fact that Black blew up an entire street of muggles and killed Peter? And committed the ultimate betrayal?” Snape snaps cruelly, twisting the dagger deeper. “I always knew he was scum.”

Lupin slaps the table loudly with both of his palms. He stands up. Despite his tears, his usual meek nature and ill appearance, a flash of rage burns in his irises. His pale cheeks are flushed red, and his voice is laced with a dangerous fury. “Sirius Black is my friend – one of my dearest and truest of friends, Snape. I do not believe Sirius did this – he was framed. He was and still is an honourable man at heart. I know him! For years! And, at least – he wasn’t a Death Eater.” Lupin takes a pause to draw a deep breath after spitting out his last sentence in disgust. The furor in his eyes suddenly dies and is replaced by a cold hard look directed at Snape. His voice is lethal. “At least he did not serve the man that killed Lily, Snape.”

Snape flinches. Lupin does not know the role that Snape played in the death of Lily Potter – but nevertheless, the blow struck true.

“In fact, I bet you had something to do with it.” Lupin continues ruthlessly.

“Shut it, Lupin.” Snape draws his wand with an ugly snarl, as does Lupin with the reflexes of an accomplished duelist.

“Stop it! Both of you.” Winters grabs onto Lupin’s wand arm, as Forest leaps up from his chair to hold onto Snape’s. “Old school feuds are so unbecoming…” Winters lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Sherlock!” Lupin turns his attention to him. “I beg of you! Please find out what happened to Sirius – he couldn’t have done this! He loved James and Lily – he would never betray them. And he loved little Harry! This must have been all a misunderstanding!”

Sherlock finds himself thinking about the case – Black had already been arrested – as per the evening _Daily Prophet_. The facts seem grave for Black’s case. He does not know if Lupin is in denial, grief or if there is a genuine belief that Black did not commit the crimes. He knows that Black had been the Secret-Keeper for the Potters – Snape had told him. But, there are favours he could use from Lupin. Despite his friendships with the members of the Order of the Phoenix – Lupin himself is not an official member. Perhaps Dumbledore is wary of having a werewolf in his own inner circle. Lupin is extremely knowledgeable in the Dark Arts – and Sherlock could use his help in a few things – such as dealing with the Dark Magic that seems to have parasitically grafted itself onto his son.

Snape had put away his wand, but he says darkly and bitterly, “Don’t waste your time, Holmes – Black is capable of such heinous crimes –“

“Kindly do not make my decisions for me, Snape.” Sherlock grimaces – perhaps he needs to do some digging on why Snape is such a bitter bastard, aside from the fact that Lily did not choose him. “Lupin, I will have a look. We will discuss this later – perhaps after your transformation next week.”

“Are you leaving, Sherlock?” It is Forest who asks.

“It’s this little one’s bedtime.” Sherlock replies easily, making his excuses. “I will brew my Potions at home next week – owl me if anything urgent comes up.”

.

.

“Ah, little brother – I thought you would never return.” Mycroft greets him at the door – this time he actually opens the front door for him, instead of Sherlock needing to dismantle the wards.

“Harry needs to sleep.” Sherlock replies simply. “Also, there are simply too many people in the Lab today to get anything worthwhile accomplished.”

Mycroft takes Harry from Sherlock’s arms, so that he could remove his cloak, scarf and gloves.

“So, are you looking after the little one tomorrow when I go off to work?” Mycroft asks, somewhat cautiously.

“Of course, who else? We can’t exactly trust anyone right now.” Sherlock says, slightly annoyed at his brother’s lack of faith in him.

“I am sorry, brother – but you aren’t exactly a shining pillar of responsibility.” Mycroft looks sharply at him.

Oh, that hurts. Sherlock sighs internally. And it is true – he knows that he has been a source of worry and concern for Mycroft for pretty much his entire existence. And, he hasn’t exactly given his brother an easy time since he had graduated from Hogwarts.

There were the drugs, the flat evictions and a whole host of other irresponsible behaviours that could fill a book or more. Nor has he always been kind to his brother.

No sane person would trust him to raise a child.

But before he could ruminate any further, his brother gently grabs the sleeves of his robes and pulls him deeper into the house.

“Let’s put Harry into bed, shall we?”

There is an indescribable fondness in Mycroft’s voice. His brother is infuriatingly hard to read – Sherlock sighs. His brother could be reprimanding him one minute and doing something nice for him the next.

He really does not know what Mycroft feels about him – is he a duty?

There was a time where they had been close – but that was many years and resentments ago.

He turns to follow his brother up the stairs.


	5. Where Sherlock Makes an Ally and Begins an Investigation

“What do you want?” Sherlock almost snaps in annoyance, peering carefully outside the front door of his brother’s house through the tiny crack between the door’s edge and frame.

“A word, if you please – Sherlock.” Winters says coolly – unperturbed by Sherlock’s subtle hostility. He is surprisingly sharply dressed in a modern-cut three-piece muggle suit. But then again, Winters is not ignorant of mores outside of the pureblood aristocratic circles. “Let me in.” The aristocrat demands.

Warily, Sherlock opens the door wider and permits Winters entry into Mycroft’s house. How the fuck did Winters even know where he lived? He would have to consider strengthening the wards, finding a way to make them stronger without having to resort to using something like the _Fidelius_ Charm. That would be more hassle than it is probably worth. He lets his gaze linger a second longer than necessary at Winters’ dark eyes – inconspicuously testing the force of the man’s Occlumency shields.

Winter spreads out and elevates his arms slowly, signaling benign intent. “We have known each other for a year, Sherlock – I am not a foe.”

“Are you an ally?” Sherlock inquires as he leads the man into Mycroft’s well-equipped kitchen. Instead of offering Winters tea, Sherlock merely plops down on a tall chair at the counter – as if he is the visitor.

“Depends.” Winters says. He then sighs with resigned exasperation. “Of course, you aren’t in the habit of offering refreshments even in your own abode. Figures.”

“Nope.” Sherlock replies with a minute amount of obnoxiousness, “Feel free to brew your own cuppa.” He gestures to the cupboard near Winters’ head.

The aristocrat sighs louder and walks over to pull out Mycroft’s tea making necessities. After several moments, Winters brings Sherlock a saucer and teacup bearing his brother’s finest Darjeeling, with a splash of honey – just the way Sherlock likes it. He adds two scoops of sugar and a dash of milk in his own cup and settles himself on the chair across from Sherlock.

They simply sip at their teacups. Sherlock scrutinizes his intruding visitor. Winters looks tired; there are faint dark circles around his eyes. He thinks back to his Hogwarts days. Winters is two years younger than him – a Slytherin – and Forest and Winters had been joined at the hip. He can deduce that Winters’ father is not long for the world – no doubt as the only son and heir, Winters is busy trying to take up the mantle and learn the ropes before his old man expires.

Winters sets the cup down, clasps his fingers together and says, “Information is a powerful currency.”

Sherlock feigns boredom – Winters tends to be mysterious, verbose and grandiose. It isn’t a legitimate personality disorder, but drama is a trait of Slytherins. They really do like to pretend that they are more complex than they really are. And obviously, Sherlock agrees that information is an important asset – especially with the hobbies he cultivates and the job his brother has. And, Winters surely has a reason for darkening his front doorstep – so Sherlock shifts to a more conventional script.

“I take it your Father is unwell.” Sherlock says politely, “And your wife and son are well.”

“The Veil will take him soon. Consumption is truly no joke.” Winters says.

“Ah, my condolences.” Sherlock replies.

“Don’t.” Winters holds his palm up. “Although my Father does not deserve to be destroyed by his own magicks – he was not the best of human beings. And we shall leave it at that.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. This is truly a turn of events. The Edward Winters he knows back in his Hogwarts days had idolized his Father.

“Morgan is doing well. She’s taken up baking when she isn’t being harassed to death by Henry. What a scamp!” Winters quickly adds to the conversation, before Sherlock could ask any more probing questions about his Father.

Sherlock wonders – is Morgan Saito bored at home being a housewife? She had been a feisty tomboy and half-blood Gryffindor with great ambitions – the last girl expected for the pureblooded heir of the Winters family to marry. Old Lord Winters probably had a coronary when their engagement became public. 

“But, anyways –“ Winters continues, “I’ve been learning for the past few years about how to practice my family’s trade. You know, as all the old families do – we influence things behind the scenes – with money, inherited positions, leverage… philanthropy… etcetera and etcetera. I am still trying to figure out what causes are worth my time, money and effort. Of course, when my Father passes, there’s a spot on the Hogwarts’ board and his position on the Wizengamot that I have privilege to take, should I wish it. But, to get to the point – I know who your son is!”

Blast it! Barely forty-eight hours in, and someone already suspects… Mycroft wouldn’t be pleased about this – Sherlock thinks. And Winters is too fucking rich to be bought off…

“Your child…” Winters says; his voice soft with all the Slytherin drama he could muster, “Is the heir of the Noble House of Potter.”

Sherlock remains passive – he does not dare say a word.

“I am not an idiot.” Winters continues. “I saw how Severus looked at the child. He is a childish man who holds onto old grudges and passions. The way he looks at your son, when no one is watching him. So complex, yet simple once you understand that the offspring is a combination of what he loves most dearly and hates with every particle of his being. And, the child’s features have some resemblance to that of the late James Potter. Like you, I see what people do not see.”

“And, what do you plan to do with said information?” Sherlock asks lazily. “You do realize my dear brother and I are the legal guardians of our child. As far as we are concerned, my child is the heir of Holmes, and whatever other legacies his genetics grant him.”

“Sherlock.” Winters says firmly. “I am not here to make an enemy out of you. I am here to propose an alliance. There are whispers amongst us that Potter’s child survived the Dark Lord’s curse on that fateful night at Godric’s Hollow – and that someone made off with that child before anyone official could get on the scene. My best guess – is that with the Dark Lord gone – there shall be peace. But my instincts also tell me that there will be interesting times ahead. You know – the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot are reasonably young creations – barely five centuries old – if I still remember. Wizarding Britain used to be ruled by –

“You want to consolidate a ruling pack – like how they did long ago?” Sherlock cuts Winters off before a fully-fledged history lecture could take place with an amused air.

“Oh, Merlin – no!” Winters looks disgusted by the thought. “I would never want to get my hands dirty like that. And besides – you know what happens to people in visible power? They get dethroned!”

Sherlock has the odd feeling that Winters and his brother would get along rather well in terms of their views on managing power. They both wanted to be the mysterious wielder of the puppet strings behind the scenes.

Kingdoms can rise and crumble at their whims, and no one would be the wiser.

“Besides, I only wanted to ask you. There was Grindelwald; there is or was Voldemort; perhaps there will be a new power in play soon. Your child, Harry, has intriguing potential. I would like my son to grow up alongside yours.”

Ah… here is Edward Winters he knows – hedging his bets that Harry would be the next mysterious personage to rise. Mycroft would love such an allegiance; his big brother has always been nagging Sherlock to play nice with wizarding aristocracy – not for manners – but for power and leverage.

“You will keep the heritage of my child a secret?” Sherlock lets his eyes make contact with Winters’.

Winters holds the gaze steadily. His palm rests over his chest, left of sternum. “Of course. I swear it.”

“Our main priorities are that Harry grows up happy and healthy. We are not raising him to be a political pawn in anyone’s game.” Sherlock says impassively.

“A true dream of every parent.” Winters replies solemnly. “Morgan would have my hide – otherwise. But, you didn’t say anything about teaching him about how to use other people in his own political games.”

“Not my area.” That would definitely be Mycroft’s area.

“Ah yes, we can scheme until – as the Muggles quaintly say – till the cows come home – but we need – as you would say – more data.” Winters adds.

“You do realize, Winters – that you are picking a side? I thought it was your position to stay neutral in the political facets of your life.” Sherlock would accept this alliance – even if he does not trust Winters completely – it is always best to keep potentially dangerous people close.

“Well, we are both selfish people. We aren’t here to improve the world from an objective standpoint. We put the interests of our family above all.” Winters states, while Sherlock mulls over the last statement. It’s been awhile since he had considered the interests of his family – he does not give a fig for either of his parents – who think he is a colossal failure. But he has Harry to think about now – and he will have to spend some time repairing his relationship with his big brother.

There is no way he could raise Harry on his own.

Winters holds out a hand – Sherlock shakes it firmly.

“Next time I will bring some _Firewhiskey_ – I’ve got some antique vintages that are just resting in the cellar. And for God’s sake – call me Edward!”

.

.

“Sherlock, this case is a waste of your time and talent.” Lestrade states frankly as he sits down on the luxurious plush couch in Mycroft’s living room, dropping a hefty stack of case files on the coffee table. The prematurely graying Auror is dressed well in his best clothes – a stylish charcoal robe, a well-tailored shirt… no tie – Sherlock deduces that the Detective Inspector has a date later this evening.

“Let me be the judge of that, thank you very much – Gavin.” Sherlock waves away Lestrade’s concerns, while the Auror makes a face.

Lestrade’s eyes wander around the room and fixates on the colourful foam playmat that little Harry is busy crawling around on. There are large colourful wooden blocks strewn over the surface while a high-quality stuffed plush of a white dragon sits at the corner and emits magical smoke from its nostrils at periodic intervals – an indulgence from Mycroft.

“I didn’t even know you were into women!” Lestrade gets distracted and takes a detour that Sherlock had no interest going along with.

“You know – experiment.” Sherlock shrugs, playing along. “Even geniuses forget the contraception sometimes.”

“Irene was irate.” Lestrade informs. “Asked me if I knew anything about it! I told her this is the first time I heard anything about you shagging a woman – frankly. Always thought you were a flaming homosexual.”

“Why, Lestrade!” Sherlock looks incredibly amused. “I did not know you were interested!”

“Too hot – and not worth the trouble.” Lestrade jokes, but Sherlock sees right through it. “I was married not too long ago – if you do recall.”

“Oh! Your date is with a man!” Sherlock deduces with an impish and borderline manic grin. He is truly surprised – Lestrade is a half-blood – and the Muggles really did have strong prejudice against what they called so eloquently ‘the fags’. “You surprise me, sometimes – Gage! Truly broadening your horizons –“

“Shut up!” Lestrade says good-naturedly. “Figured it was time to start playing for the other team – if you get my drift.”

“Arsenal still sucks.” Sherlock lets merriment dance in his eyes – not that he gave a toss about Muggle football.

“Ah, you are just trying to rile me up.” Lestrade waves away the insult to his beloved football team. “Well, if you know any sexy men – Sherlock – feel free to chuck them over here. Maybe… your brother?”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock’s tone comes out more annoyed and irritated than intended. Somewhere, deep inside his formidable mindscape – a buried, and long-lost memory rattles its chains of suppression. All Sherlock feels is that somehow – he does not like Lestrade’s genuine attention to his brother.

And he does not know why.

“Oh ho – we don’t like that very much – don’t we?” Lestrade looks too mirthful, leaving Sherlock with the rare feeling that the Auror knows something he does not know. “Fine, I will manfully resist your brother’s charms on your behalf.”

Sherlock mimes gagging and retching, and Lestrade bursts into laughter.

“Shall we get back to the case at hand?” Sherlock asks, after Lestrade starts having a coughing fit from laughing too hard.

“Here.” Lestrade pulls up a case file, and Sherlock quickly skims the notes, interviews and the photographs.

He thinks. He then says, “Let me ask you some questions.” He claps his hands once – prompting both Harry and Lestrade to reflexively look towards him.

“Fine, only if you would have a look at my other two cases – and you will not complain about how boring they are, alright?” From one glance of Lestrade’s face, Sherlock knows that the cases are truly dull.

“You drive a hard bargain, Giovanni.” Sherlock looks peeved.

“Giovanni!” Lestrade grimaces. “For fuck’s sake – Sherlock – it’s Greg!”

Sherlock ignores Lestrade’s outburst and asks seriously, “Besides Peter Pettigrew’s right index finger, is there anything else that places Pettigrew at the scene?”

“Besides all the witness? There was an incredible amount of blood, body fragments – it was a nasty scene, Sherlock – thirteen people died in that explosion.” Lestrade exclaims.

“Can any of the remains be definitively linked to Pettigrew?” !Sherlock inquires further.

“That would be a true labour of Hercules, Sherlock.” Lestrade sighs deeply. “I am afraid the science and magic of forensics is too young for such a feat.”

“Did Sirius Black have a Dark Mark on his left forearm?” Sherlock continues his line of questioning.

“No.” Lestrade thinks for a long moment. “He does not.”

“Then how are we so sure he defected to Voldemort’s ranks?”

Lestrade flinches at the cavalier use of You-Know-Who’s name. “We are not so sure about this – although it would be an excellent and neat explanation…”

“Lestrade, Lestrade, Lestrade – this is truly a heinous crime we have here!”

“Tell me about it!”

“No – you manipulating the data to suit your beloved hypotheses!” Sherlock looks at the Auror in mock-horror, almost flinging the files out of his hands. “No, we have to start at the beginning – it is the most logical place to begin. And we have to do this work with a clear mind – no preconceived biases.” It is Sherlock’s turn to sigh deeply. “If only I saw the scene of the crime with my own eyes and senses…”

“I didn’t know you were interested!” Lestrade exclaims, “And the pressure was immense – Fudge was there…”

“Hang the toad!” Sherlock makes an annoyed face – he has no use for career politicians whose only role in public is to talk sweet lies. “You could have called me over after the scene was cleaned up. I only wanted to see…”

Lestrade nods apologetically, “I didn’t even think – but I suppose the magic traces would be too cold now… even for you.”

“Yes. There’s no way now I can detect magic from that scene – also too many things would have happened in that space for me to tell what exactly happened anyways… But… what does Pettigrew look like? What kind of a man was he?”

“That – you will have to ask from someone else.” Lestrade shakes his head slowly, “I don’t know Pettigrew – personally.”

“Figures.” Sherlock shrugs again, “Any chance that you can let me talk to Black?”

“He is already in Azkaban – in a holding cell.”

“No trial?” Sherlock’s voice comes out absolutely surprised.

Unbelievable – for such a public case. Sherlock can understand the need for persecution without trial for matters that compromise national security, but not for something as outrageously public as this! Truly, the world is run by incompetents.

“Looks like no trial – our Head and some of the people in the Wizengamot are still discussing the details – but –“

“For Merlin’s sakes – you lot could end up putting an innocent man in Azkaban!” Not that Sherlock cared too much about Black – but for the wheels of justice – Sherlock does have his own ethical code.

“People want a scapegoat. As soon as possible – you know.” Lestrade says, “And it’s out of my hands anyways. You should have seen Black when my people arrested him – laughing like a maniac – never seen anything quite like that before. And believe me, I’ve seen some crazies during these years. And, you have to admit, the evidence is overwhelming…”

“Perhaps…” Sherlock fidgets restlessly with his fingers.

Something just was not right about this case. His instincts are tingling.

He needs more data.

“Now, can we please deal with these?” Lestrade pulls out the next sheaf of papers from his pile.

Sherlock sighs when he reads about the case of the exploding dustbins.

How terribly boring!


	6. Where Remus Finds a Job

Sherlock scrutinizes the triple-tier cake stand, examining the sandwiches, scones and other treats on offer. His fingers go for an egg salad sandwich, while Lupin goes for a roast beef. There’s a wolfish expression on the tired man’s face, as he devours the sandwich with ease. Today, Lupin is dressed in his least shabby set of robes, covering over a dress shirt and a pair of jeans. The full moon is nearing, and its effects give Lupin a rather anemic appearance.

Little Harry sits on a high-chair next to Sherlock, and he carefully flies a piece of his sandwich into the little boy’s mouth – muggle airplane style.

“This place is fantastic.” Lupin looks somewhat wistful; his eyes dart around the quaint little tea shop, taking in the mix of clientele enjoying their afternoon. “James and I would sometimes hang about in shops like these – he loved the cucumber sandwiches.”

“This is my brother’s favourite shop.” Sherlock finds himself sharing while sipping carefully at his Assam. “Do not mention that I went without him. It is a sin in his eyes.” Sherlock sighs inwardly, it has been ages since Mycroft and him have been here. Guilt gnaws at him – he hasn’t really spent any brotherly time together with his big brother besides the times they had been looking after Harry at home in the past week. “He loves the cucumber sandwich as well.” Sherlock takes a breath – itching to change the topic, “How was the funeral?”

“Ghastly.” Lupin’s countenance darkens. “It’s all wrong.” The werewolf shakes his head. “All wrong. James and Lily were too young to die. Too young. And with little Harry missing. Even Dumbledore does not know what fate has befallen their child. Peter dead, Sirius in Azkaban. Damn it.” Lupin curses, his hands gesticulate haphazardly, and the Gryffindor settles for clenching his fists. “Sorry.” He apologizes meekly, “It has been a terrible year – my mum died too; my father has been a wreck.”

Sherlock nudges a smoked salmon sandwich towards Lupin, who takes it.

“And, I honestly don’t know what I am going to do with myself. It’s impossible to find anything beyond a minimum wage job – no one will hire me – on the grounds of being a werewolf. James had been covering my expenses, so that I could do my research. But, with his death – and the will leaving every Knut to little Harry – I am afraid that it’s going to be some lean times ahead.” Lupin sighs deeply, as if carrying the weight of the world upon his scrawny shoulders.

Sherlock nibbles daintily at a ham and brie and shares part of it with Harry, who animatedly lets out a string of gibberish. He suddenly has an idea.

“I need an assistant.” Sherlock says impulsively.

Lupin’s eyes widen. “What does that entail?”

“You’ve been publishing papers under a pseudonym? I believe? Under Master Romulus White?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.” Lupin looks surprised, “How did you –“

“Lupin, it is my job to know things.” Sherlock goes for a plain buttery scone with clotted cream. “Besides, I need someone knowledgeable about the Dark Arts.”

“I can’t say I am an expert…” Lupin begins saying with a modest air.

“How about errands? Like doing the shopping?” Sherlock moves on to the next point, while giving Harry his first taste of real fresh clotted cream.

“I believe I can manage that.” Lupin nods; he helps himself to a slice of the decadent and perfectly moist chocolate cake. “Sounds simple enough.”

“How about wrangling children?” Sherlock grabs an egg custard tart. “Such as little Xavi here.”

“You… trust a werewolf around your child?” Lupin looks absolutely shocked.

“It’s not like you are looking after him during the full moon… Besides, Forest wants me to supervise your full moon nights on the new Potion. And, I know that you are an honest man – Lupin.”

“I will try my best.” Lupin sounds incredibly grateful.

Sherlock has a feeling that this decision would pay him back in spades.

“You are hired! I will have to talk with my brother – but I just came into a decent inheritance and should be able to pay you a generous salary.” Sherlock adds. “But there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Thank you – Sherlock – you have no idea what this means to me.” Lupin bows his head.

.

.

Mycroft sighs deeply as he returns back home. Today has been a long day – he had attempted to clear away a new scandal for the incompetent Prime Minister – and tried to talk the Secretary of State out of starting a new proxy war in some insignificant country in the Middle East.

His once unsocial brother had been busy entertaining guests in the last few days. Mycroft does not like it one bit – having strangers that he cannot vet in his sanctuary. Monday – he had found two bags of his precious Darjeeling missing from his cabinet; Tuesday – the forgotten cashmere scarf of one Auror Gregory Lestrade draped over the back of one of his armchairs; Wednesday – a suspicious combination of knocked picture frames and an armchair that might suggest someone had some vigorous sex against a wall; and finally, today – Mycroft couldn’t see any signs of anything in the living room. He could; however, smell something deliciously mouthwatering coming from the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft calls – feeling oddly domestic. “I am home!”

He walks into the tiled modern space, while Sherlock mutters as he plates food, “I heard the door, brother. Wash your hands – and sit!”

Mycroft washes his hands in the sink, while trying to watch his brother from his peripheral vision. He almost wants to weep with joy – his little brother has made him dinner. A momentous event. He sits down next to little Harry – who they have decided for the time being will be referred to as little Xavi just in case there are ears around.

“How are you, little one?” Mycroft turns his attention to his nephew.

Little Xavi babbles, while waving two of his blocks. “Noo-noo!”

“Well, my day was tedious.” Mycroft answers, while noting that at some point, Sherlock had set the dining table as well, with the nice linen, the fine silverware and there is even a bouquet of fresh colourful flowers sitting at the centre of the table.

“My!” The little boy suddenly chirps – bringing Mycroft’s thought processes to a halt.

“What did you say?” Mycroft turns his attention back to his nephew.

“My… My!” Xavi points to Mycroft.

Something in his icy heart seems to thaw. Mycroft beams at the little boy, whom he had been changing wet and stool-filled diapers for the last week and lifts him up from the high chair. He barely restrains himself from swinging the boy around in a circle before putting him back down.

“This is completely unfair, brother.” Sherlock complains, “He does not know my name – but he refers to Remus as Ree-ree, and you as My. And I spend most of my days with him. Hmph – traitor.”

Merlin, his brother is so adorable when he pouts. Mycroft sighs. He then asks suspiciously, “Who is Remus?”

“Ah, Remus John Lupin – my new assistant.” Sherlock brings two plates over – laden with food. “I fed Xavi already, so no need to worry about him.”

“Is he not the werewolf?” Mycroft smiles at the dinner. Linguine – made with a mixture of truffle oil, garlic and herbs; a slab of perfectly pan-fried salmon with crispy looking skin and a mixture of steamed greens.

“Potter’s friend, yes. He needs a job, so I gave him one.” Sherlock adds. “And, he will help me deal with the unpleasant magic tangled up in Xavi’s forehead.”

“Does he not suspect?” Mycroft asks curiously.

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “He has never seen baby Harry. In fact, he wasn’t part of any of the scheming for the Potters’ security during the year before their deaths.”

Mycroft grabs a fork and carefully twirls a precious amount of pasta around the twines. He bites; he savours – it is as good as any pasta he has had in Italy. Now, if only there is some good wine…

“Oh, my mistake – brother.” Sherlock dashes off to the fridge – god, his brother can never just move around like a normal person – and brings back a chilled bottle of an excellent Pinot Grigio with two wine glasses.

He watches as his brother decants the wine and sets a generously filled wineglass next to him. Damn, did he die and go to heaven? Taking the knife, he slices a sliver of salmon with skin and tries it. “You should have been a chef – brother mine.” Mycroft wants to smack himself for letting an endearment he sometimes uses in his mind for his brother leave his mouth.

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t seem too fazed by his slip. “Ah, cooking is just like brewing. Just less precise, big brother. I asked Edward Winters for the linguine recipe.”

Mycroft almost chokes – the soon to be Lord Edward Winters? – good lord – his little brother is playing nice with the aristocracy.

Hell has frozen over.

“Well, he was the one who took your tea – brother.” Sherlock shrugs. “He kind of found out that we took young Harry.”

“Was there blackmail, brother?” Mycroft tries to conceal his worry under a poker face.

“No, he offered his allegiance.” Sherlock sips at his wine. “I accepted.”

“I suppose I could spare the tea for such a joyous occasion.” Mycroft takes another bite of the heavenly pasta in relief. He then dares to ask, “Who came on Wednesday, brother?”

.

.

His food-loving brother appears to adore his cooking. Sherlock inwardly sighs in relief – this would be the first step in hopefully mending their fraternal relationship. He would have to thank Edward for providing those recipes in a timely manner by falcon. He had almost forgotten the wine – but fortunately, Mycroft had unconsciously made a gesture that mimed picking up an imaginary glass of some sort – so Sherlock had been able to remedy that quickly. And Remus had bought all the groceries, the alcohol and the flowers from the local Tesco as his first duty as Sherlock’s assistant.

This is something he could probably do for his brother, a handful of times a week, instead of living on takeout and delivery every day.

Of course, little Harry – or rather Xavi – had found his syllables for his brother. Sherlock had felt incredibly peeved, but the sheer delight writ across Mycroft’s face seemed to counter his annoyance.

And then, of course, his brother had asked about Wednesday. Forest had came over on Wednesday to talk about his expectations regarding the new Wolfsbane that Lupin had been taking every day this week, leading up to the full moon. Little Xavi had been asleep upstairs, and one thing had led to another – and Sherlock had found himself balls deep in Forest’s pale and plump arse. They had been trying out feather-light charms, so Sherlock had placed one on Forest, picked him up and fucked him against the wall. A pretty good experience – overall.

Sherlock flushes slightly. “Forest Malfoy came over on Wednesday. We talked about the new Wolfsbane, and his son Blaise.”

Mycroft raises a skeptical eyebrow, “Did you two discuss procreation as well?”

“More like recreation…” Sherlock mumbles, hiding his response behind another bite of linguine. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like an adolescent who got caught by his parents for having sex.

For Merlin’s sake, he is a grown man!

“Is it serious?” Mycroft actually asks; there is something grave about his brother’s expression.

Sherlock wants to laugh! There is no romance amongst Forest, Snape or him. Sex for them is an outlet for repressed emotions, experiments and orgasms. He cannot believe that he is talking about relationships with Mycroft – of all people.

“No, brother – we are in what they call a friends-with-benefits situation.” Sherlock comes clean. “The opposite of serious.”

“Is there someone?” Mycroft asks delicately.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not that I am aware of.” He then shrewdly looks at his brother, “Are you seeing anyone, brother?”

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“Is there somebody?” Sherlock returns the question, while taking another bite of his salmon.

Mycroft suddenly looks troubled; his brother who usually had a response to everything seems to be at a loss for words. Damn, then there must be somebody that Mycroft wants.

Who? Is it Auror Lestrade – who is eagerly looking for love after his divorce? And has a thing for his brother – apparently?

Sherlock finds himself hoping that Mycroft does not return Lestrade’s regard; honestly, he has no idea why these aspects of his brother’s hypothetical love life should bother him so much.

Indeed, here is perhaps another case to solve!

.

.

What is he supposed to say in response to that? Mycroft wonders glumly. That yes – there is someone he wants on this planet, and it is surprise – you?

In the Wizarding World, unlike Muggle Britain – incest is not illegal. In fact, it had been somewhat common in the old families until it went out of fashion a few hundred years ago. What was taboo, is the offspring of such relationships. Fortunately, the contraceptive charm had long been discovered, so there was very little risk for the incestuous siblings of the opposite sex. Incest had fallen out of favour when a serious pandemic influenza had hit, and severely decimated the population of wizards and witches all around the world. Then, the mindset had been on procreation and mixing the gene pool (although back then, it had not been described like that).

“My!” Xavi cries from his chair, and Mycroft stands up to pick the little boy up again. This time, he settles Xavi onto his lap, and lets the boy have a forkful of salmon.

Well, all wasn’t lost anyways. He could love little Xavi – who contains his brother’s genetic material. And, Sherlock’s sexual adventures had no apparent feelings attached, so that was certainly something.

He sighs again – but his eyes widen in surprise when his brother brings a takeout container, bearing a selection of desserts from his favourite tea shop.  

“No weight jokes, brother?” Mycroft finds himself asking.

Sherlock seems to wince. “No, brother – no weight jokes – and I am sorry. It was childish of me.”

“Are you sure? I will just have one then.” Mycroft treads cautiously.

“No, have two!” Sherlock takes a fork and a knife and drops two scrumptious slices of cake – one chocolate, and one strawberry cheesecake onto his plate. “And please don’t feed any to Xavi, he’s had way too much!”

“My!” On cue, Xavi points to the chocolate cake. There is a determined glint in his bright green eyes.

“Oh no, mister – you’ve already had too much cake – you spoiled wee little thing.” Sherlock quickly picks up the little boy from Mycroft’s lap before Mycroft could be charmed into providing cake. “You will never fall asleep with all that sugar in you! And drive us all crazy.”

“My!” The little boy actually starts crying.

Sherlock rocks Xavi in his arms, while Mycroft focuses on finishing his dinner, wine and dessert. Even if he can’t have his brother the way he wants him, this domestic, dare he call it, bliss is more than he had ever hoped for.

.

.

“Peter…” Remus sighs deeply. “He was always considered the slow one. I was the smart one, Sirius was the charming one and James was the daring one. He idolized James and Sirius – you know. It just does not make any sense!”

Sherlock summons a piece of parchment from somewhere in the house. He lays it down flat on the coffee table. Concentrating on the memory-image of the strange man he had seen visiting Harry’s crib, he points his wand to the parchment and whispers, “ _Captis imago_!” In stunning detail – or as much detail that Sherlock could retain of the man – an image coalesces on the parchment from the rich pigment spilled forth from the wand.

“By Merlin!” Remus exclaims. “That’s… that’s Peter!”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks, looking into Remus’ eyes – checking for sincerity.

“Positive.” Remus nods, “But, why – why was he there – at Godric’s Hollow?”

“I think you need to start your story from the beginning.” Sherlock says seriously, “I always tell my clients this – they like to jump around, and even start from the end.”

“Have you heard of the Marauders?” Remus asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, “I was out of Hogwarts when you lot barely started.”

“Fair enough.” Remus says. “It all started when I was bitten by Fenrir Greyback.”

“Your transformation.” Sherlock picks up the mug of tea from the coaster on the coffee table – Earl Grey today. He drinks.

“Dumbledore went through a lot of trouble to let me come to Hogwarts. I spent my full-moons at the Shrieking Shack – really it was just a shack at Hogsmeade when you were in Hogwarts –“

“That, I actually know. I’ve gotten offers to go investigate the shack – but the paranormal is beyond my scope.” Sherlock shakes his head with amusement. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

“It was miserable. I bit and scratched myself – all locked up in that shack. But, James and Sirius were amazing.” Remus’ eyes gleam, and his lips actually form a smile – the first true one that Sherlock has seen from Remus. “They figured it out – where I went every month. Not only did they accept me for who I was –“ Remus suddenly looks twitchy and nervous, “This is in confidentiality?”

“Of course.” Sherlock nods. “Everything always is.”

“They became Animagi. Even Peter managed it.” Remus breathes in awe. “It was incredible. I was never alone again for my transformations – until the Wolfsbane was discovered.”

Sherlock whistles. He had never figured out how to become an Animagus – well to be fair, it had never been on his to-do-list – but still, he can appreciate incredible feats of magic.

“We would roam the grounds – somehow, being around them made me feel more human – I was more me – if that makes any sense to you.” Remus’ voice grows wistful and nostalgic. “My transformations – they were no longer the burden they used to be. They became another adventure – as things always were with Moony, Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail. We, four, Marauders. Pranksters, friends – forever.”

“So – what were the forms?” Sherlock asks after a lengthy silence.

“Prongs – was James – a magnificent stag. Padfoot – was Sirius – the big black dog. Wormtail – was Peter – the rat.”

“Remus!” Sherlock exclaims. “Oh, that is so clever.” His mind whirls thinking about the possibility that Peter – or Wormtail – is alive. “Come on – the game’s afoot!”

“Wait, but what about Xavi?” Remus exclaims; as Sherlock has predicted – Lupin is the responsible one.

Oh – right. Xavi is still sleeping – it is still morning. And the trail might be too cold for Sherlock to pick up anything at all. It had been, after all, over a week since Black had been arrested.

“You know what, I will go have a look – and you mind Xavi. Back in a tick!”

Sherlock grabs his muggle coat and blue scarf before running out the door, leaving a perplexed Remus behind.


	7. Where Sherlock Smells a Rat

“I am sorry, but who are you again?” Millicent Bagnold, the Minister of Magic, leans forward slightly at her desk, scrutinizing Mycroft with her hawk-like eyes, rimmed by silvery spectacles.

“I am Mycroft Holmes, Minister. And, I am here on official business on behalf of your Muggle counterpart.” Mycroft sits casually – completely at ease, in his usual armour of three-piece suit. He observes; Bagnold is coming off the euphoric high of being the sitting Minister during Lord Voldemort’s downfall. She had attended a great deal of the celebrations in the past week – which had been minor headaches for him. There had been innumerable breaches to the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy over the last few days – and really, did the Ministry of Magic think that Muggles would buy such a load of bloody horseshit for explaining the frequent irregularities?

“Well, if it is about those Statute breaches during our celebrations of the Dark Lord’s downfall, Mr. Holmes, I can reassure you that there won’t be anymore.” The Minister says rather flippantly, “And I have never seen you before.”

Mycroft is annoyed, but his years of handling political delicacies more volatile than this situation keep his annoyance concealed within an icy exterior. Merlin, how he despises that the denizens of the Wizarding World hold themselves as superiors over their non-magical counterparts.

“Oh no, I am not here for that, Minister. Those are tiny trifles. Insignificant. What I am here for is the matter of Sirius Black.”

For once, Bagnold looks taken aback – her eyes betray her surprise. Mycroft knows that Sirius Black’s name was not explicitly mentioned in the memo passed over to the Muggle PM. But she rallies with a triumphant air, “That matter should be done and dusted soon, Mr. Holmes. Black is in Azkaban, soon to be sentenced.”

“But pardon me, Minister…” Mycroft says smoothly, “Is that not what your people have said for the last decade? That everything would be done and dusted soon? That Lord Voldemort –“ Bagnold actually flinches at the name. “would be behind bars and brought to justice?” Mycroft continues with a deadly amount of silk in his tone, “And now you claim that Lord Voldemort is gone – yet there is no body – no tangible evidence that he is truly vanquished. But… that is not the point. The crux is that the matter of Black has resulted in the deaths of twelve innocent civilians on a busy London street. It is your job – the Ministry’s job – to ensure that Muggles are not harmed by events from your world – and to put it bluntly – the track record over the last decade has been rather… should I say – abysmal.”

“Mr. Holmes – are you doubting our competence?” The Minister seems to be unsure in terms of how to proceed with the current situation. Mycroft knows that the Ministry of Magic is used to dealing with Muggle PMs who have virtually no knowledge on how the Wizarding World works – but this is the first time that Mycroft had volunteered to directly tackle a Muggle-Wizarding relations affair.

“Maybe I am.” Mycroft permits a small smile to form on his face.

“You don’t know what we were –“

“On the contrary, Minister, my apologies for interrupting - I do know what your lot has been dealing with. Which is why we have decided to assemble a small team of experts to reassess such high-casualty situations. A third party – to ensure that such tragedies do not take place upon British soil – both magical and not. So, I am here today to request access to one Mr. Sirius Black for an interview.”

“Really Mr. Holmes – this is absolutely not necessary –“ Bagnold is flustered at the proposal.

“Well, if your people have nothing to hide – then there should be no harm in having our people take a quick assessment. Our interests are one and the same, Minister. We all do want a safer Britain to raise our children in.”

“Very well.” Bagnold finally gives in. For the first time, she looks directly into Mycroft’s eyes – only to be met with an impenetrable void. Mycroft normally fills his _Occlumency_ shields with superficial thoughts to play the role of the oblivious non-magical person, but this situation calls for a different kind of approach.

“Just, who are you – Mr. Holmes?” The Minister is dumbfounded.

“Ah, just a minor government official working at the pleasure of Her Majesty. Nothing less, nothing more. Good day, Minister – you know how to reach us when Black is ready for a little chat. Sometime within the next week would be lovely.” Mycroft gives a quick polite bow and walks out of the room with his umbrella in hand.

Merlin, the things he does for his brother.

.

.

The street looks like any other street in Muggle London. People walk briskly on the sidewalks, each in their own little world. The vast damage that Sherlock had seen from Lestrade’s photographs had largely been tidied up with the magical help from whichever branch of the Ministry that dealt with such catastrophes. He stops walking and closes his eyes. There is definitely magic here aside from the magic that was used to repair the enormous crater, albeit it is weak. He can sense the residual magic of the blasting curse and trace it to the point in space where the magic had originally left the wand. But, as Sherlock had predicted earlier, any other traces of magic were long gone.

He walks casually into a nearby deserted alleyway, summons his wand from his holster with a snap of his fingers and casts a Notice-Me-Not charm on his person. He returns to the place where the blasting curse had originated and tries another tactic – a footprint tracking spell. This particular variant can only pick the footprints of magical beings, but like with anything else, the traces weaken with time. And, the results are an absolute mess; there are footprints everywhere of different intensities – from the Aurors, the Ministry employees who came to clean up the damage and the wizards and witches who have came to examine the scene out of curiosity over the last few days. And, of course – his own.

It is frankly, frustrating. He should have been here earlier.

Sherlock sighs. He repositions himself, so that he stands next to where the blasting curse had went off and takes another careful look. There are two sets of barely perceptible footprints that stop within a metre apart of each other, marred by other better-defined footprints superimposed over them. They likely belong to Black and Pettigrew – Sherlock thinks; they are the oldest set of footprints around. He conjures a measuring tape, kneels down and proceeds to measure the dimensions of the prints. Pulling out a notebook from his coat pocket, he taps it once to enlarge it back to its original larger size with his wand and proceeds to notate his observations with a pen. He quickly sketches the prints as well, making note of the patterns of the shoes the participants wore. This was a difficult task, due to all the overlapping footprints. The person who had smaller feet had been standing closer to the original detonation point of the blast and was more likely the culprit.

And then, Sherlock notices the tiny faint paw prints emerge from one footprint of the person with the smaller feet.

Rodent. Sherlock could deduce.

Damn.

He carefully draws his new observation, before putting his notebook away. Carefully staying a good distance away from the rodent prints, he follows them. They lead to a nearby drain at the side of the street unaffected by the blasting curse. A dead end – for Sherlock cannot follow.

So, Pettigrew is alive.

Most likely.

Hell.

He carefully reviews the footprints in his mind, before ending the tracking spell. He intends to preserve the memory in a Pensieve later as potential evidence. He heads back to the deserted alleyway, ducks behind some rubbish bins, and _apparates_ silently away.

.

.

 

“Xavi! You are awake!” Sherlock exclaims when he bursts into the kitchen, where Remus is busy making breakfast.

The little boy looks solemnly at him with his striking green eyes – which were slowly starting to change. Sherlock is beginning to notice flecks of blue, gray and even gold pigment in Xavi’s irises in addition to the green – creating a unique shade that bore some resemblance to his own eye colour.

Snape would be so disappointed. But, in another sense – it is a relief, for it would be far less likely for someone to identify little Xavi’s true parentage by his eyes.

Xavi picks up a handful of Cheerios from a white bowl decorated with tigers and stuffs the handful in his mouth. He crunches noisily, while Remus brings over a plate of rashers, scrambled eggs and a stack of chocolate chip pancakes drizzled with honey and powdered sugar – a special Lupin recipe and sets it down in front of Sherlock. Picking up the fork, Sherlock spears a bit of the pancakes and has a bite.

Merlin, he is going to end up fat if Remus keeps cooking for him. So, instead he shares some of the food with Xavi, after the little boy takes a large gulp of milk from his animal-themed sippy cup. Xavi has clearly developed a sweet tooth, especially after the day of the high tea, and happily eats the pancakes with more relish than his bowl of cereal. The boy – his son – refuses the eggs but agrees to try a bite of bacon.

“Ree-ree!” Xavi cheerfully exclaims when Remus comes back to the table, this time with his own plate of breakfast.

Remus beams and proceeds to tickle the little boy who squeals with laughter. Xavi ends up chucking a handful of Cheerios into the air, making a delighted noise as the cereal rains down onto the table and floor.

Sherlock sighs. He is, after all, only the contributor of genetic material. With his DNA, Sherlock knows he is almost guaranteed a difficult time parenting Xavi. And the bad-boy history of Xavi’s mischievous late father probably did not help matters. He had hoped that out of the two of them – Mycroft would be the one laying down the law – but if things maintained the current status quo, his big brother was more likely to spoil the little boy.

Summoning his wand, he _vanishes_ the scattered bits of food.

“Aw… Sherlock – Xavi loves you!” Remus says sympathetically, while opting to pour some maple syrup on his own pancakes.

“I don’t need pity – Ree-ree…” Sherlock drinks some Earl Grey tea from a mug, “I am a big boy.”                       

Remus looks at him with exasperation. “Well, you aren’t here to see what Xavi does when you are gone. When you leave, his eyes dart around, looking for you. He gets upset when you are not around.”

He makes a noise of skepticism, but tucks into his food with more vigour at the information. Merlin, he had never thought he would get so attached to a child to the point where he would get slightly jealous of everyone else’s interactions with the boy. And, of course, there were more important matters to think of: if Pettigrew is indeed alive – how on earth were they going to find him? Rats were tricky animals – they were tiny, they can go into places where other creatures cannot and therefore, are incredibly difficult to track down. Traditional tracking spells would not be of much use in this situation. And he wouldn’t go to Lestrade right now – this case needed delicate handling.

And also, tonight is the night of the full moon.

A truly busy day.

.

.

Mycroft internally sighs when the door to his house swings open, revealing one Forest Malfoy. The bastard Malfoy invites him in, takes his coat and treats him as if he was a guest in his own home. At least the man’s got impeccable manners, Mycroft muses sourly when he sits down at his dining table. The man fucking his beloved little brother. Malfoy takes out his wand and taps at the plate containing dinner in front of Mycroft to remove the stasis charm. Mycroft could now smell the delicious aromas emitting from the food.

“Compliments of your brother.” Malfoy says with genuine cheerfulness, “Damn, he’s a fabulous cook!”

Mycroft watches the man walk away in his bespoke shirt and trousers; Malfoy is wearing a green shirt that flatters his pale skin and a pair of tightly tailored trousers that do nothing to hide a well-formed arse. He sighs deeply again – why does his brother’s paramour have to be good-looking and charming? Not to mention so much younger – nine years to be exact. He then turns his attention to the food; on the plate were mouth-watering pan-fried halibut steaks, a medley of roasted vegetables and some white jasmine rice arranged nicely in a small pyramid.

“There’s dessert too!” Malfoy turns around and winks saucily, “Your brother insisted on saving the last slice of cheesecake for you. It’s in the fridge – so you may eat it at your leisure.”

“Where is his majesty, anyways?” Mycroft ignores the innuendo. He knows that Sherlock and Forest are not in an exclusive relationship, but still – the idea of being unfaithful to his little brother is abhorrent.

“His liege is taking a nap with Xavi. He does need to stay up all night to monitor the Wolfsbane.” Malfoy turns around again, this time leaning like a model against the doorframe. “Dear Remmy is already situated in your garden shack, awaiting the Frosty Moon!” He throws a little jaunty farewell wave before finally strolling out of the kitchen.

Mycroft sighs again, while tucking into his brother’s delicious cooking. At least Sherlock has been thinking about him – evidenced by the food and the cake in the fridge.


	8. Where Forest Enlightens Sherlock

“I think your brother hates my guts.” Forest remarks as he wraps his thick dark-grey cloak tighter around him to ward off the chill of the late November night.

“Are you a wizard or not?” Sherlock is exasperated. He summons his wand and taps the sleeve of Forest’s cloak thrice, casting a _Warming Charm._ “And, Mycroft dislikes most people. You are not special.”

“Thanks, mum.” Forest quips, earning a glare from Sherlock. “I never took you as the maternal type. And, besides, I lived in muggle Massachusetts for the last few years – you know. One forgets the luxuries of being a wizard rather quickly… And, regarding your brother – this isn’t your regular dislike – this is more like I did something to offend him… in some way…”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Forest’s very existence is offensive to people. “Well, did you offend him in some way?”

“No, I was my usual charming self.” Forest stands up to peer into the one of the windows of Mycroft’s garden shack, where Remus currently lies at rest in his harmless Wolfsbane induced state.

“See, now that is the very problem I was afraid of.” Sherlock replies dryly.

“Your brother is gay.” Forest states bluntly. “So, very, very, very gay.”

“Tell me something I do not know.” Sherlock sighs deeply, “So, you hit on him? You do know Mycroft is nine years older than you?” He then slaps his forehead, “Oh, but of course, I am talking to the person who slept with Mrs. Amaryllis Zabini…”

“No, he seemed pissed at me even before I could even say anything.” Forest denies firmly. “Although I would happily sleep with your brother… or even better, be the filling of a hot Holmesian sand –“

“And, that is happening… never.” Sherlock quickly interrupts Forest’s sentence.

“Does your brother know that we have casual sex, Sherlock?” Forest asks.

“Yes, he does. He deduced it from the picture frames from a few days back…” Sherlock thinks back. _What were they thinking – having sex in Mycroft’s living room?_ “But, why would he care about who I am having sex with?”

“He is big brother, after all.” Forest replies with a thoughtful look upon his face. “Maybe he doesn’t approve of what we have? Or, maybe…” There is a dramatic pause, “He wants you.”

“No way!” Sherlock shakes his head aggressively, “I highly doubt he wants me, Forest. I am a fuck-up as far as things go in our family. And, it’s incest.”  

“It’s not illegal on our side of the world.” Forest then looks at Sherlock with sudden insight, “And, you… you actually are not disgusted by the idea of it! Like, even I have my limits – I wouldn’t want to fuck my brother – for instance.”

“The hate sex would be amazing…” Sherlock smirks, while he ponders about what Forest had said. Should he not have a stronger aversion to the idea of having sex with his own biological brother? Most people’s reaction to a suggestion of incest would have been absolute disgust! And, he has a feeling that he’s missing something… something that happened a long time ago. A suppressed memory… but what is in that memory? He had a faint inkling of its existence when Auror Lestrade had expressed his interest in getting to know Mycroft a bit better. And, it isn’t something that Sherlock can induce his formidable mind to recall. A voice in his head tells him that he could always ask his brother – but Sherlock knows he wouldn’t. Maybe that memory is nothing important – or Sherlock is simply making things up – a false memory.

Either one of these two scenarios would be too embarrassing.

No, he wouldn’t pursue this line of thought – he would focus on improving their brotherly relationship. And, he doesn’t even know what he feels for his brother – does he even want to have a romantic relationship with Mycroft, out of all people? Sure, his big brother has been overbearing and controlling at times over the years, but these days… they worked better together.

Forest visibly shudders in horror. “No. Hell, no. Merlin, I wouldn’t have sex with Lucius for all the galleons in the world.”

“Well, I guess there goes my dreams for the Malfoy sandwich…” Sherlock says drolly – really, he has no such desire, but it is hilarious to see something get to the shameless Forest for once. Well, aside from the incident of impregnating the infamous Zabini…

“Trust me, the world would end.” Forest says solemnly. “Now, is this new Wolfsbane any better than the old one?”

Sherlock pulls out another notebook from his cloak pocket and enlarges the book. He flips to a section dedicated to Forest’s Wolfsbane brews, where he has raw data for parameters that were quantifiable only for Sherlock.

In a werewolf – Sherlock can sense tangles of aversive magic floating in the bloodstream.

Wolfsbane – itself, in its current standard form – does not reduce the number of these tangles but changes the quality of these magical tangles. Sherlock unfortunately does not have a good way to measure the quality of such tangles, but he has been taking blood samples before and after the ingestion of Wolfsbane from all the werewolves that come to Forest for cheap Wolfsbane in an effort to design such measurement.

Sherlock hypothesizes that the potency of the tangles is correlated with the genetic expression of materials inducing the werewolf phenotype (the traits that one usually observes during transformation). And the process of expression is traumatic – it induces a decrease in blood cell counts (as seen in muggle chemotherapy drugs), explaining Remus’ symptoms in the week leading up to the full moon, and damages the telomeres (the protective ends of DNA strands) leading to a decreased lifespan amongst other things. Wolfsbane is thought to confer a protective effect on the telomeres; therefore, prolonging the lifespan of lycanthropes, although more experimentation would need to be done to be sure.

Of course, there are many parts to the theory that outline the mechanisms behind lycanthropy – but Sherlock has too many things going on in his life to focus on it.

Besides, this is Forest’s project – not his.

“In terms of density of tangles, Forest – it is unchanged. The tangles themselves do feel different compared to what you normally sense with regular Wolfsbane. Less malicious – is how I would describe it.” Sherlock sighs, abhorring such imprecise terminology.

“If only I can visualize magic like you do…” Forest sighs. “It would help – a lot.”

“Well, if I can find a way to measure these tangles in terms of their quantity and quality without relying on my magic-sense – it would definitely help a lot.” Sherlock replies, “But, I have my own projects too.”

“I know.” Forest nods, “I’ve been going into the shack every hour and collecting vitals, some of the other quantifiable traits and a narrative description. And, I have to scale up the project somehow in the coming months – we can’t have data from just one werewolf.”

“You will have to find a new locale for that.” Sherlock says seriously, “Mycroft won’t stand for his house to be taken over by packs of werewolves. He already put up a fuss about Remus transforming here.”

“Understandable.” Forest nods. He then adds knowingly, “See, your brother puts up with all your crap – and he is still around.”

“Out of familial obligation – I am sure.” Sherlock states.

Forest smirks. “No way – does he talk to anyone else from your family?” Seeing the look on Sherlock’s face, Forest continues, “Evidently not. You matter to him – and I personally do not think it is strictly fraternal. In fact, over the next while – observe for yourself! That’s what you do best anyways.”

“Why are you so keen on this?” Sherlock is suspicious.

“I want you to be happy – is that enough of a reason? Besides – that hatred I felt earlier from your brother – I would best describe it as jealousy. And –“ Forest waves placatingly at Sherlock, “I know you think I am terrible at relationships – but trust me – I might be shit in terms of things concerning my own relationships – but I do have an excellent sense in what goes on in relationships not involving me.”

“You do realize if your hypothesis is correct, and I magically somehow end up in a relationship with my brother – we are never going to fuck again?” Sherlock counters.

“Ah, I will still have Severus. And all the other lovely available people on this planet.” Forest replies, “I mean, you are a great shag – but, I can be selfless and let you go.”

“You aren’t some martyr.” Sherlock rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time today. “For giving up intercourse with me…”

“Let me have my dramatic flair.” Forest gives his long hair a seductive flick, “And you can go have big brother. In fact, we can even bet on it – if you want.”

“Somehow,” Sherlock replies ominously, “Starting a relationship on the foundation of an ill-advised bet seems like a doomed one.”

“Wow, are you sure you aren’t a romantic, Sherlock?” Forest grins broadly, “Next thing you know, you will be bringing flowers and writing sweet sweet sonnets to your brother. I mean, you already cook and clean for him, like a lovely little housewife!”

“Piss off.” Sherlock flips him the bird.

Forest laughs delightedly.

.

.

“Ah, Molly!” Sherlock enters the mortuary at St. Mungo’s with a brisk air, “Do you still have Pettigrew’s finger?”

The dark-haired witch looks from Sherlock’s face to Remus, who is trailing behind him – carrying little Xavi in his arms.

“Should you be bringing your son in here?” Molly looks pointedly at the cadaver she currently has out on her table.

Sherlock shrugs, before Remus replies, “I will just wait outside then with the little one, Sherlock – Merlin, I didn’t even think!”

“You haven’t been here in a while,” Molly remarks when Remus steps out of the room. “And, who was that? And coffee?” The pathologist bats her eyelashes coquettishly at him, while Sherlock sighs inwardly – he just wants his damned finger – thank you very much.

“I’ve been busy, Molly. With Xavi, Forest’s lycanthropy project – on top of everything else. I don’t even have time for my own stuff anymore.” Sherlock replies honestly, “And, that was Remus – my new assistant. Two sugars would be best.”

Molly lets out a long-suffering sigh, before taking off her disposable gloves with two loud snaps.

Madness is doing the same thing every time and expecting a different result! Molly has been trying to get him to agree to coffee since Hogwarts! And, she’s supposed to be a scientist – for Merlin’s sake!

She strides off to fetch the coffee from the lounge nearby, leaving Sherlock alone.

When she returns with two cups of coffee, Sherlock is scrutinizing her latest victim – who had came from the hospital floor – nothing too notable about the corpse, other than the fact that the wizard had died young.

“Ah, Mr. Stevenson – forty-one years of age – manner of death – Potions accident.” Molly passes a cup to Sherlock, who sniffs at the hospital-brewed coffee. “You know, I think of you whenever these Potions accident deaths show up.”

“How very kind of you.” Sherlock replies dryly, “So, about that finger?”

“You can’t take it – the Ministry has placed a special order on that!” Molly warns, before finally opening the refrigeration unit and pulling out a small box.

Sherlock takes it and pops open the lid, revealing one pale, magically preserved digit. He puts on a pair of gloves, takes out the finger and scrutinizes it from all angles.

“Did you see any of the other remains from that case – like from the muggles for instance?” Sherlock is all business.

“No, I believe Greg said that nothing was salvageable. Everything else was blown to dust.” Molly offers.

“Greg?”

“Lestrade!” Molly makes a face, “You know, the kind but crazy Auror who gives you cases?”

“Ah, George!” Sherlock continues to examine the finger – this time examining the point of severance.

It is too clean.

Pettigrew must have sliced it off himself with the application of a simple _Severing charm_. If it had been a blast injury – it would have been blown to smithereens like everything else on that scene based on the trajectory of the blast. If Black had cast the _Blasting curse_ , he wouldn’t have bothered with slicing off Pettigrew’s finger.

It logically made no sense.

Pettigrew had cast the _Severing charm_ first, then the _Blasting curse_ and then transformed into the dirty little rat that he is – running off into the sewers.

No, that finger had an important purpose – to frame Black.

Merlin, the DMLE (Department of Magical Law Enforcement) is a joke.

He carefully looks at Pettigrew’s severed digit again – this time memorizing all the details for the creation of yet another Pensieve memory.

.

.

Mouthwatering aromas greet Mycroft’s nose when he returns from an exhausting day of work. Lady Smallwood had invited herself into Mycroft’s office after their group meeting with the Prime Minister and, it had been an intolerable thirty minutes of her talking shop and trying to subtly hit on him – doesn’t that blasted woman know that he is gay?

God, his brother had cooked again. Mycroft had thought that the home-cooked meals were a phase that Sherlock was going through – but now, it does not seem to be the case.

He is greeted by an enthusiastic Xavi who lifts his arms up, “My! My! Up!”

Mycroft picks up the little boy from his highchair and swings him up in the air, causing a delightful squeal of joy. Damn, how did he live alone for so many years? There is nothing better than coming home to someone happy to see you. He gives Xavi a quick kiss on the cheek, just as Sherlock carries a formidable tray of Greek goodness to the dining table: succulently roasted chicken with crispy looking skin and hearty potatoes mixed with roasted vegetables. There is even a small plate bearing several seafood skewers. A bottle of Riesling had already been placed on the neatly made table, right next to a glass vase bearing a mixture of yellow and cream coloured roses.

“Do wash your hands, brother – who knows what germs you picked up all day in that office of yours…” Is Sherlock’s lovely greeting. “I have no desire to deal with a sick Xavi during flu season!”

In another universe, Mycroft muses – the roses would be red and lavender, and he would be able to wrap his arms around his little brother’s slender waist and kiss him. His brother’s charms are wasted on people like Forest Malfoy… But then again, in another universe, Mycroft would probably not be harboring such intense incestuous feelings towards his brother.

Sighing, Mycroft makes his way to the sink and does what he is told.

.

.

Sherlock watches his brother as he swings Xavi into the air – as if he was the exhausted breadwinner and father coming home from a long day’s of work. Not that Sherlock would be the housewife in this analogy… he had accomplished plenty of work outside today, with Remus’ help. Something odd in his chest flutters when he sees his usually icy brother give an affectionate kiss to the little boy. But then again, Mycroft had been hoodwinked by Xavi’s charms very early on. It is Mycroft that Xavi goes to for treats that Sherlock would refuse to give – and only Sherlock realizes now that Mycroft had been like that – indulgent – during Sherlock’s entire childhood as well. Mycroft had been the best big brother a kid could have asked for.

He sees Mycroft’s gaze fall upon the flowers – which Remus had gotten – and the wine and then to him! There is something wistful about the way big brother looks at him; is Mycroft reminiscing about the past – when they had been as close as siblings could be? Or, is it more along the lines that Forest had mentioned several days beforehand, outside in Mycroft’s garden, underneath the cloudless skies and full moon? Sherlock flushes slightly under Mycroft’s scrutiny, before turning away to grab the food that he had cooked over the last hour with the help of his magic.

Merlin, get your act together – Sherlock scolds himself. He is a scientist, first – there must be some objective measurements of attraction that he could assess on his brother. Things like heart rate, pupil dilation, reactions to innocent touching or phrasing and etcetera would be good things to observe.  

.

.

The meal is fantastic – as is with all of Sherlock’s culinary attempts. The chicken is so tender, it falls apart with the lightest touch of the knife, and the skin offers a crisp that makes Mycroft think that he’s at a very nice restaurant. And, of course, it is special – because his brother had cooked it. There is probably enough for leftovers for several days – and maybe he could bring some in for lunch instead of having Anthea order him something barely palatable.

“I could use the meat and make sandwiches for you, big brother.” Sherlock suggests, “Or even a pita wrap – I was going to make hummus, but I figured there was enough food…”

“That sounds fantastic.” Mycroft almost pinches his thigh, to test if this is real. “I also have some good news for you too. It should help with your investigations into Pettigrew’s death.”

“Pettigrew is alive, brother.” Sherlock looks serious and grave. “He is an Animagus on the run. A rat in every sense of the word.”

Ah, this is a new development. Although, Mycroft can tell from Sherlock’s expression that this is something he had figured out days ago. “Did you tell your friend, the Auror?”

“No. There’s some delicate matters in this situation. I don’t want any official involvement until we have all the salient facts, brother.” Sherlock says. “My hunch is that this has something to do with the Potters – although I do not know the details.”

“Prudent, brother.” Mycroft looks over at Xavi, who is engrossed in playing with some colourful toy cars that are too large for him to swallow. He then offers the good news. “You can see Black tomorrow – it has all been arranged. Anthea and one of the Aurors will accompany Remus and yourself. And I will work at home and look after Xavi.”

There is a grateful look on Sherlock’s face. “Oh, I didn’t know you were working to get me clearance into Azkaban – I was going to sneak in, to be honest.”

“People generally try to get out, not break in, little brother.” Mycroft knows he is looking at his brother with an expression that is too fond to be mistaken for fraternal affection.

“How many ghastly people did you have to deal with for that?” Sherlock asks.

“Enough.” Mycroft says wryly, “The Minister of Magic is just as tedious as the Prime Minister.”

“Well, politicians are all cut from the same cloth, Mycroft. Magical or Muggle.” Sherlock reaches over for a potato, just as Mycroft reaches for another chicken thigh and their hands accidentally brush against each other, for at least three seconds.

Mycroft downs a gulp of wine quickly in response, as he notices a non-alcohol related flush grace his brother’s cheeks. And, he can see the pulsing of Sherlock’s carotid in that delectable pale neck.

What is going on with little brother? Mycroft thinks as he savours another bite of chicken. If he isn’t wrong, these are some classic signs of attraction… but… if he is wrong about that – he could accidentally set their relationship back to the unpleasant state it had been a few short weeks ago. And Mycroft has absolutely no desire to go back to that.

And, isn’t his brother still fucking Forest Malfoy?

Damn, he would have to observe more carefully. As Sherlock would say – more data would be required.

“My!” Xavi points to the potato on Mycroft’s plate. “Po-po!”

With a nod from his brother, Mycroft picks up the tender potato slice and hand feeds it to Xavi, one messy bite at a time.


	9. The Road to Azkaban is Paved with Misery

“Xavi!” Mycroft hears his brother call out in dismay just as he enters the dining space.

His little brother, dressed in his customary aubergine shirt and tightly tailored trousers, is wearing Xavi’s breakfast – steamed egg; most of the tender egg with its almost pudding-like consistency had landed on Sherlock’s neck and had been trapped by the collar of his shirt; the liquid is still seeping down the shirt forming dark stains in its wake. Mycroft simply stares – somewhat transfixed, mesmerized by the mess on his usually immaculately put together brother. Somehow, he has a mad desire to stick his tongue in the delectable dip of his brother’s suprasternal notch, and simply lick the savoury egg off. He shakes his head violently – freeing his mind of such unbrotherly desires as Sherlock summons his wand and cleans himself off with a non-verbal swish.

“No Lupin today?” Mycroft walks calmly – noting that there is a reddened appearance to his brother’s skin, where the egg had landed – the food had been still hot.

“He will meet me at the boat – to Azkaban.” Sherlock had picked up Xavi’s upended bowl and is currently scooping more of that velvety egg into the bowl for a brave second attempt to feed Xavi his breakfast.

“Here, brother, I will feed the naughty little one.” Mycroft strides towards Sherlock, who hands him the bowl and a colourful spoon. He sits down next to the highchair. “Morning, little menace.”

“My!” Xavi squeals, “Eh, eh!”

“Giving our ‘Lock some trouble, mm? Little rascal, you.” Mycroft does his best to ignore his brother’s distracting pout at the shortening of his name.

There is a loud scraping noise of the chair legs against the floor, as Sherlock plops his bum down on the other unoccupied chair flanking Xavi’s highchair.

“This is how you feed him, brother.” Mycroft smiles as Xavi eats his egg with minimal fuss. “So, steamed egg? This is the only type of egg that he will eat?”

“Was Remus’ idea.” Sherlock sighs. “I like it too – maybe with a bit of shitake mushrooms, and a dash of seafood – and oyster sauce. Edward’s wife sent me a nice list of Asian recipes…”

“The secrets to your cooking, brother mine?” Mycroft says.

“It’s skill that makes the Potion, Mycroft.” Sherlock smirks with a delicious amount of bratty arrogance. “I can extrapolate it to cooking as well.”

“Well, you certainly are a man of many talents.” Mycroft simply acknowledges, while sampling some of the egg himself from Xavi’s bowl. “You should eat, too.”

“I ate a more than adequate amount of dinner, yesterday.” Sherlock shrugs. “I am not exactly hungry, big brother.”

Mycroft places Xavi’s bowl down and grabs one of his brother’s skinny wrists. His hand easily goes around it. Without thinking too much about it, he places his index finger on the radial pulse. “You could certainly use the calories, little brother.”

“Are you suggesting that I put on some weight, brother?” Sherlock suddenly looks warily at him, although there is a flush to his skin that extends beyond the egg-splattered areas.

Mycroft can feel the rapid beating of Sherlock’s heart. Too fast for Sherlock’s baseline resting state. “Please eat – for me?”

“Fine.” Sherlock finally speaks after a minute – his eyes seems to fixate on where Mycroft’s hand is holding onto his wrist, but he makes no move to free himself.

Realizing that he still is grabbing onto Sherlock’s wrist, Mycroft reluctantly lets go, and his brother scampers off to the fridge and pulls some of yesterday’s scrumptious leftovers out. Mycroft continues to feed Xavi, who immediately demands, “Po-po!” when Sherlock starts heating up a selection of leftovers for himself with the microwave.

“Smart boy.” Mycroft beams.

“I wonder where he got it from…” Sherlock muses.

“Certainly not from you.” Mycroft says teasingly, “You can be so incredibly stupid at times, brother.”

“Such as?” Sherlock brings his plate of leftovers and picks up a potato. He hands over the treat to Xavi, who thankfully does not make a mess, and eats it like a civilized boy.

“When you tried to heat aluminum foil in the microwave…” Mycroft gives an example.

“Experiment, brother.” Sherlock simply states.

“I could have told you what would have happened.”

“A good scientist should always verify the data themselves.”

“Silly boy.” Mycroft shakes his head. “It’s common sense.”

“Ah, where would I be without my big brother…” Sherlock sighs dramatically, before tucking into some chicken.

Mycroft shudders; _probably dead_ – are the first two words he thinks of; images of Sherlock found in drug dens, both wizarding and Muggle – come to mind. God, he had even paid some of Sherlock’s debts – knowing that there was no way his brother could have found the money. He knows he had been enabling his brother’s habits back then – but he couldn’t imagine what his brother would have done to get the money. And, there was that night – which had started off as Mycroft’s best night and quickly turned into his worst when he realized that his brother was high… On what – Mycroft has no idea. If Mycroft could delete memories – that would be the first on the chopping block. The curse of an eidetic memory. And, Sherlock – obviously and thankfully – has no such recollections.

But his little brother is not dead – and is sitting beside him – eating at his request…

“I guess you are right… Physiologically, I am hungry – but I am so used to ignoring my baser impulses. I really shouldn’t be eating – I need my brain…”

“Balderdash.” Mycroft snorts. “Eating does not slow your brain down. Maybe a heavy carbohydrate laden meal might temporarily, but your brain needs the glucose.”

Sherlock turns to feed Xavi another potato, a piece of roasted zucchini and sliver of chicken. The little boy makes noises of contentment and happily accepts every piece of food in his mouth – without spitting it out. Mycroft still remembers an incident with the peas – and Sherlock had not been at home so he could not ask his brother to magic away the mess.

“Plans, today – brother? Taking over the world?” Sherlock quips.

“Just simply keeping my little corner of the world functional – little brother.” Mycroft finally gets up from the table and rummages the fridge to heat up his own breakfast from the leftovers. “Contrary to your belief – I do not plot world domination.”

“Boring…” Sherlock says – protracting both the syllables in a singsong manner – but it is said with teasing intent.

“Fine, yes! I am plotting the downfall of a country that shall not be named for the interests of the Queen.” Mycroft sighs loudly.

“I knew it! May the sun never set on the British Empire!” Sherlock gets up to drop his dirty plates in the sink. “I think I should go now. Or I will be late. Laters!” Sherlock throws on a robe lying on the back of a chair, ducks down to kiss Xavi on the cheek – and to Mycroft’s infinite surprise – bestows a casual kiss on his cheek as well before grabbing his cloak and disappearing into the living room.

Mycroft simply reaches up and touches the spot that his brother’s lips had so lightly brushed against his skin. He can still feel the kiss. The kiss could be construed as brotherly – but Sherlock does not kiss people – aside from Xavi. Or perhaps his lovers – not that Mycroft would know about that. He cannot deduce everything. And there were also the facts that Sherlock did not complain about Mycroft grabbing his wrist and of course, that racing pulse beneath his brother’s soft skin. A Sherlock from a month ago would have gone all hostile at Mycroft grabbing hold of his wrist in such a manner.

“There is something strange going on with your Papa.” Mycroft remarks to little Xavi once the front door slams, who simply demands for another ‘po-po’ in reply. “Well, stranger than usual.” He amends, while offering Xavi another potato.

.

.

Sherlock casts a warming charm on his clothes as the blustery cold sea winds assail him. He emerges from the trees from the Apparition Point, looking out towards the grey-blue waters of the North Sea, extending as far as the eye could see. Terns fly; their calls echo in the salted air. Sand and stone crunches under his feet, as he makes his way towards the wharf – made with a desolate mixture of stone and wood. It is a sunless day, the star buried beneath light clouds of grey, suggesting a rough ride ahead.

“Morning, Sherlock.” Remus is already there – punctuality will always remain his forte.

Sherlock nods, as he looks towards the silent and solemn figures of their other two companions. Anthea and surprisingly the Auror named Mad-Eye stand adjacent to each other, both clad in robes and cloaks of black. Their backs are turned slightly towards the other – a disagreement? Sherlock muses – or maybe something deeper. There is history here, writ on both in their respective physical language. He has virtually no knowledge of Anthea’s previous life in the Wizarding World before she had begun her secret work for his brother. Anthea offers him a small smile, while Mad-Eye’s spinning eye examines him, similar to how Sherlock would scrutinize specimens under his microscope. The Ministry had apparently deemed this excursion of high import, as Mad-Eye had been assigned as their escort. Sherlock knows Mad-Eye by name and reputation only, despite services rendered to Lestrade.

“Well, it looks like the gang is all here.” A swarthy, well-built man with golden rings in his ears steps in front of them, a sailor’s cap perched jauntily over his shaved head. There is a tattoo of an iridescent fish skeleton on one of his bare and buff forearms – the dye unique to Wizarding Japan. He bows, somewhat ironically. “Name’s Finnick. But you lot can call me Skip. And, it shall be me who will take you over to the lovely isle of Azkaban. Usually my cargo involves more whips and chains, but I will live with it.” He reveals a toothy grin before turning his attention to Mad-Eye. “Ah, Alastor – it’s been a while since you’ve graced my ship!”

“Azkaban isn’t exactly my idea of a regular locale to visit, Skip.” Mad-Eye replies, his tone surprisingly friendly. “Not quite the place for a weekend getaway, I am afraid, laddie.”

“A pity! Ah, but you’ve given me so much business over the years!” Skip exclaims, “Kept me busy, clothed and fed – you know what they say – idle fingers are the devil’s instrument!”

Anthea cannot help but to shoot a meaningful glance at Sherlock. He shakes his head. His fingers are not idle these days. There is too much to do, and not enough time.

They follow Mad-Eye and Skip down to the pier, where boats are docked, bobbing up and down with the waves of the sea. Terns aside, there is only the howling of the wind and the _klunk, klunk, klunk_ of Mad-Eye’s wooden leg against the wooden sea-corroded slats.

There is a gloomy serenity about the landscape.

The watercraft they step onto is small, but comfortable enough for five people, and with some extra space for cargo – which Skip has – magically sealed crates containing supplies for the human population at Azkaban.

“Anyone prone to getting seasick? I’ve got a nice potion here, for those with poor sea legs.” Skip offers, while making his preparations for launch.

Sherlock sits at the back of the boat, and surprisingly, it is Anthea who joins him.

“Ever been to Azkaban?” She asks.

“Of course not. I might be naughty, but I am not _that_ naughty.” Sherlock winks at her.

“I must confess that I’ve had an urge to give you a good hiding, now and then.” Anthea returns his wink. “A good spanking would work wonders!”

“Why, Anthea – is there something you need to tell me about?”

She grins, as the motor of the boat begins to start. “Your brother would kill me. He seems to be awfully fond of your impertinent arse.”

“Next thing you will be telling me is that he also has fantasies involving my literal impertinent arse…”

Anthea laughs; a merry sound that Sherlock has never heard before. “Who doesn’t!” She then says seriously, “I’ve been to Azkaban, before… It’s not a fate I wish upon anyone. It is the worst. It is the very definition of soul-sucking and misery. And pain. A literal hell. Think about the worst points of your life, your fears, your insecurities – everything that is negative – and being forced to go through all of that, every waking hour. Azkaban will erode, corrupt and distort every good and happy thought from your brain, and leave you a broken husk. It is inhumane. Worse then anything the Muggles could ever do.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I promised your brother that I would look after you.” Anthea says solemnly; her hand reaches over to pat his thigh. She then says shrewdly, “Your brother didn’t put me on here for your physical protection, Sherlock.”

“I thought you despised me.” Sherlock admits, as the boat pulls quietly away from the pier, splashing occasional drops of water on his waterproofed cloak.

“I did, at times – when your brother would go to work in abject misery. But he is happier these days – so the evidence tells me that you have been a good boy.” Anthea reveals.

“My brother’s mood is a barometer for my misdeeds.” Sherlock muses. He then asks curiously, “What’s the deal with Mad-Eye and you?”

“That, I would prefer to keep to myself.” Anthea says grimly; her countenance darkens. “We’ve worked together before, and it didn’t end well. He’s certainly a personality – I do have to say. You might think you or your brother live for your respective hobbies and jobs, Sherlock – but Mad-Eye is truly the epitome of that statement.”

“Damn, did you work for the Department of Mysteries?” Sherlock tries to deduce.

“Worse, I was an Auror.” Anthea makes a face. “But that’s neither here nor there.”

“Wow, I am sorry.” Sherlock says genuinely, “How ghastly! All those rules and paperwork!”

“That hasn’t changed.” Anthea permits herself another smile.

“Ah, yes – my brother; the pen is mightier than the sword fits perfectly for him.” Sherlock nods, his tone comes out slightly mocking.

“Sherlock!” Anthea exclaims, “Be nice to your brother! He does know how to use a sword. And, sometimes, I think all he cares about is –“

Anthea actually claps her carefully manicured fingers onto her lips, not wanting to finish the sentence, while Remus carefully scoots over towards them in the rapidly moving craft – the boat skimming the waters in a way that makes Sherlock feel like they are flying. Remus presses a chunk of Honeydukes’ finest chocolate in Sherlock’s leather clad hand.

“For prophylaxis.” Remus says solemnly. “It certainly won’t repel the dementors, but it’s definitely better than nothing.”

“Thank you, Remus.” Anthea immediately nibbles on the corner. “You are such a kind and thoughtful person.”

Remus’ green eyes seem to sparkle with Anthea’s genuinely given compliment, and Sherlock finds himself wondering what it is like to walk in Remus’ shoes. Sherlock himself has never been incredibly popular at Hogwarts, but his family name, intellect, sharp tongue and magical gifts kept him out of unpleasant situations – although he was always impulsively getting into some sort of trouble. But, being a werewolf – a condition that caused people to reject you automatically – sounded absolutely depressing.

Despite his warming charm, Sherlock starts feeling cold. The clouds overhead darken, and translucent haze start appearing, like smoke. His veins start to itch, just as they would back in the old days – craving for his next fix. Merlin, did he really label himself as a functioning drug user?

What a sweet lie!

A syringe appears in his mind. Transparent red – _Rapture_ – an injectable recreational Potion. Fuck. Did he seriously take that? He is holding the Potion in his hand, admiring the pureness of the red liquid. Ninety-nine-point nine percent pure – had been the seller’s comment – his name had been Ralph – but that’s not important right now. Fucking hell, how many golden galleons did he spend on that? And what about calling his dealer a seller?

Talk about using language to minimize his addiction!

Merlin, was he pathetic?

 _Rapture_ is a Potion that is notoriously difficult to make, incredibly hard to distill and of course, illegal; it is a relative of _Felix Felicis._ It is more difficult to brew than Wolfsbane, and even Sherlock himself has never tried. If _Rapture_ is brewed correctly, it would give you an incomparable high, while guiding you to your heart’s desire. Sherlock could have sworn he had never taken this form of chemical recreation before – but clearly that is another pretty and sweet lie that he had concocted for himself.

He stretches out his left arm and slips the needle into his basilic vein with ease, and the bliss quickly sets in.

.

.

The doorbell rings, as Mycroft washes the dishes. Probably some door-to-door salesman, he deduces, as he soaps another dish. The ringing of the door stops, but it is followed by a persistent sound of someone knocking on the front door with insistence. Sighing, Mycroft discards his rubber gloves along with his initial deduction, picks up Xavi with one arm, and makes his way to his front door. He peers first through the magically charmed peephole, before opening the door.

“Auror Lestrade.” Mycroft greets the prematurely greying law enforcement agent. “My brother is not in today.”

“I came to grab my scarf!” Lestrade explains, “And I was hoping to get a cuppa? And, call me Greg – we’ve certainly shared enough vigils beside your brother’s hospital beds. Oh, and this is Xavi! Remember me? I am your Uncle Greg!” The Auror makes a silly face, and Xavi rewards it with a giggle.

Sighing, Mycroft lets the door swing open wider, and Lestrade-no-Greg steps in. Greg closes the door behind him, mutters a cleaning spell for the soles of his shoes, hangs his cloak on the old-fashioned coat rack and follows Mycroft to the kitchen.

“Still a bit of a mess from breakfast, I am afraid.” Mycroft pulls out a chair. “Sit, please.”

“May I hold him?” Greg asks, and Mycroft reluctantly parts with Xavi who squeals, “Ger-ger!”

“Ger-ger – that’s me!” The Auror beams at the little boy, as Mycroft busies himself with teamaking. He also pulls out a selection of biscuits and brings them to the table.

“Do not let the little menace have one.” Mycroft says, as Greg’s fingers immediately go for a lemon biscuit. “Sherlock will not be happy.”

“Key! Ger-ger Key!” Xavi reaches out wildly for Greg’s treat, while Greg deftly moves the biscuit away from Xavi’s fingers and into his mouth.

“Well, little terror – you aren’t allowed to have one.” Greg gently pats Xavi’s back. “Your father won’t be happy.” The Auror then says, “Damn, Sherlock having a child – what a thought!”

“He’s good at it.” Mycroft replies simply, before finally bringing a cup of steaming black tea, brewed the way Greg likes. Deducing tea preferences is child’s play. “Being a dad.”

“You are too.” Greg says. “Even though you are the Uncle.”

“He surprises me every day.” Mycroft brushes off the compliment to himself and thinks about his little brother. Who is currently on a boat to Azkaban right now. God. He knows that going to Azkaban is an experience no one ever forgot – and he hopes that Anthea will keep a protective eye out for Sherlock. Mycroft knows his little brother possesses terrible and nasty memories – which may be brought to the surface today. He leaves his own tea to steep, feeling a preference for something strong, and he walks to the living room to fetch Greg’s scarf. It isn’t difficult to deduce that the Auror has a little crush on him, but Mycroft knows that there is no room in his heart for another. Especially now with Xavi in the picture. Stability would be best for the little boy.

“Here you are, Greg.” Mycroft brings the scarf. “I made sure Sherlock didn’t do anything heinous to it.”

“Ah, I will never forget when he charmed my robes to fart whenever someone came close. The flatulence was subtle, but it was horrendous at the end when I finally made him end the stupid charm.” Greg laughs, and then sighs. “What a character! I suppose there’s no way you would accept an invitation to dinner?”

“I am afraid not, Auror Lestrade.” Mycroft is all professional now. “But I do thank you for asking. I am flattered.”

“Hey, it was worth a shot!” Greg gives a sad smile as he returns Xavi back into Mycroft’s arms. “I suppose there’s another bloke…”

“I suppose you are right.” Mycroft leads the Auror back to the front door after his tea is finished.

“I suppose I should get back to work.” Greg wraps his scarf tightly around his neck forlornly.

“As should I. Goodbye Lestrade.” Mycroft watches as the Auror walks out.

“Ger-ger!” Xavi calls his farewell.

.

.

He is kissing someone. A certain someone who is taller than him and wearing expensive fabrics – notably a silky waistcoat that his nimble fingers are deftly unbuttoning. The _Rapture_ has heightened all his senses, and he is drowning in the taste, the smell and the feel of the man he has pinned against him. There is tongue; god, Sherlock has never had a kiss like this – not with Forest and certainly not with Severus. He has never been so aroused in his life.

His prick comes into contact with the promising and sizable bulge hidden under the woolen trousers of his paramour, and they both groan in pleasure; in the darkness. “Bedroom.” Sherlock breathes, and there is a grunt of agreement, before Sherlock nudges the man into his bedroom, three steps away.

“God, I want to see you, little brother…”

Fuck – the voice breaks the spell. Oh god, it is his brother that he had been making out with, all those years ago. Sherlock realizes in a panic. The chains around that locked memory had come off – dislodged by the power of the dementors. Revealing what had happened during the one and only time he had been  _enraptured_. Which is what the junkies had termed it, when someone was high on _Rapture_.

How the fuck did he even do that – seduce his rational and proper big brother? But then he remembers the _Felix_ Felicis like mechanism behind the Potion.

He remembers the rest of that evening – Sherlock had turned the lights on, his brother had mentioned something about things progressing too quickly and then Mycroft’s horror when he had finally realized that Sherlock had taken something and had been as high as a fucking kite for most of the evening.

The painful irony is that Mycroft had noticed when the _Rapture_ had just worn off.

“My god, Sherlock – this is cruel – even for you. And, I forgive you anyways – because it is the drugs that are making you do this - little brother.” Mycroft had said before he had left.

Sherlock had never seen so much pain and despair etched on his brother’s face. And he remembers crying; actually bitterly crying, and muttering _Incendio_ – setting the drug paraphernalia and a small notebook on fire. The notebook – it had been Sherlock’s invention; he had charmed a pair of these notebooks when he had been thirteen, a time when his brother and he had not been estranged. One could write in the notebook with a certain type of ink, and the words would show up in the other – a way to communicate, regardless of distance. And if anyone besides Sherlock and Mycroft laid eyes on the writing within, it would look like illegible scribbles in a foreign language that made no sense. And indeed, the _Rapture_ had shown him his heart’s desire – but Sherlock had somehow done something that night to make himself forget all of it – until now…

Oh fuck, how can he even look at his brother in the eye again…?

“Sherlock – Sherlock!” Sherlock feels someone shaking him, and he realizes that it is Anthea. “It’s a bad dream. And, gosh – you are crying!” A silky handkerchief is conjured and pressed upon his face, blotting the tears.

“It wasn’t a dream – it was real.” Sherlock says dejectedly, as the pile of rocks known as Azkaban looms ahead of them. It wasn’t exactly a dream that he could share – especially with Anthea – who would probably hex him to the point where he hovered between life and death; she wouldn’t outright kill him – as Mycroft would not permit it. God. Brother. He had been cruel; he is sure of it. And, he now knows what his big brother had felt for him then. It didn’t necessarily mean that Mycroft feels this way for him now. Certainly, Sherlock doesn’t deserve any of that passion or sentiment that Mycroft had displayed in that memory.

He feels Anthea gently manipulate his arm, to bring the chocolate that Remus had given them close to his mouth – so he takes the hint and bites a square off. “I did something unforgivable – Anthea.”

“Think about it when we get out of here.” Anthea pats his arm. “The grey mist – the essence of dementor – Sherlock, will warp and twist any recollection or memory you revisit in its presence. I am sure whatever you had done can be fixed or had been long forgiven.” There is a surprising amount of compassion in her voice, and Sherlock realizes that Anthea herself, had relived some nasty memories just as Sherlock had done.

“Folks, we are here!” Skip’s voice booms joyously. “Next stop, Azkaban!”

“How come he is bloody immune?” Sherlock mutters to Anthea, just as Skip ties his boat down.

Anthea shrugs, “Finnick and his family have been working around these parts for years. Could be innate, could be acquired – not quite sure.”

Together, they step off the boat, and walk towards the grim looking fortress gates.


	10. Heartfelt Conversations

“Bring him in!” A stony-faced guard barks at the door.

Sherlock watches as the two imposing wooden doors creak loudly towards them. The temperature in the room suddenly seems to plunge, causing goosebumps to form on his flesh. A man stands; his face ashen, his back hunched, but despite all of this, there is a spark of defiance that flickers in his grey eyes. The metal chains that hang on his person rustle and clank as Sirius Black tentatively walks forward. Two dementors hover at the door; they are large cloaked figures that reek strongly of decay. Sherlock shivers, sensing the gross magic that perfuses the space – malevolent… and dare he fancifully describe it as… evil.

Unnatural.

Now, that he is aware of the power of the dementors, Sherlock simply busies his mind with simple problems – for now, counting the prime numbers.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

For if his mind is occupied, there would be less time to revisit the past and to ruminate.

 “I would like to speak to Black… alone.” Sherlock stands up straight and makes his demand.

_Five._

“Laddie, I am afraid that your request will not be possible.” It is Mad-Eye who responds, quietly.

_Seven._

“Then, the bare minimum of persons.” Sherlock acquiesces, “But no dementors.” There is no need for more mind-altering influences to be present, especially on this god-damned forsaken island.

_Eleven._

_Thirteen._

_Seventeen._

They are ushered into a small interrogation room, furnished simply with a table and a set of chairs made out of old sea-warped wood. A two-way mirror takes up a major chunk of one wall. Black is directed forcefully to sit on the far side of the table by a guard, while Sherlock and Remus sit at the other side. Sherlock knows that Mad-Eye, Anthea and several of the guards will be stationed on the opposite side of the mirror, scrutinizing their every move. And, the two ghastly dementors will guard the door.

_Nineteen._

When the door slams closed, Remus leans forward and whispers, “Padfoot…”

“Moony…” Black replies despairingly.

“How could we end like this…?” Remus’ voice wavers, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “We are the only two that remain…” He swallows and bows his head, while mustering a deep courage. He asks determinedly, his eyes meeting Black’s. “Padfoot, did you betray Prongs?”

“By Merlin I swear… I did not.” Black scoots forward in his wooden chair – as far as his shackled wrists and chained ankles would permit. “If you believe me, my dearest friend, Wormtail is very much alive. He… he sold us out! But… but… Moony – alas – everything is still my fault. And, I am so sorry – I thought – I thought…” And here, Black breaks down and begins to sob, while Remus gasps at the revelation.

_Twenty-three._

_Twenty-nine._

_Thirty-one._

_Thirty-seven._

“Black.” Sherlock’s tone is stern, commanding. “Tell us your story, from the beginning. Our time is limited.”

And Black speaks. His voice shakes and falters at the beginning when he talks about his idea to switch Secret-Keepers. And his reasoning behind his choice of Pettigrew versus Remus. “You see, there was a leak in information – information that only _we_ would know – and Moony, Moony – my dear Remus – I thought the spy was you…”

“I would never!” Remus’ face is flushed and angry – but resigned as well. “And, you and Prongs kept me in the dark!”

“I know that now. I am sorry. More sorry than you will ever know – Moony. And, I have atoned, and will continue to atone for my sins, for putting my faith in the wrong man.” Black croaks hoarsely. “Forgive me, Moony – you are forever the rational and sane one amongst us.”

“I forgive you.” Remus nods, his voice quiet, but pained. “So Wormtail… Little Peter… he…”

“Yes.” Black continues his story, a tale of betrayal and artifice. “I knew he betrayed Prongs and Lily and Harry, as soon as I stepped into Godric’s Hollow that night. When I saw Lily’s dead body, my blood boiled, and I sought him out immediately, while Hagrid looked around for little Harry. But he was too clever for me – or at least – I underestimated him. Merlin, Moony. He got me. He got me good! I am here – rotting in hell, and he is laughing somewhere – in the sewers. The blighter even sliced off a finger, can you not believe it – before blowing up the goddamned street. Moony – if it wasn’t for my genius – Prongs and Lily would still be here! Today!”

“We must get you out of here, Padfoot – you are innocent!” Remus exclaims, as Black shakes his head with despair and resignation. “No one here or at the Ministry believes me. Unless Wormtail himself shows up, I am afraid I will rot in Azkaban – and I am already starting to go mad. And, I deserve it – Moony – I deserve it. I started the chain of events that led us to this sorry state, and it is only fitting that I am punished.”

“Not like this… the dementors have got you good… Padfoot. You certainly did not force Peter to defect to the other side.” Remus looks at Black with despair.

Black finally turns his attention to Sherlock. “Who is this, Moony?”

“My employer. And a man who seeks the truth.” Remus says.

“Just a few things.” Sherlock stands up briskly, knowing that their precious time is running low. “I want to see your feet.”

Sherlock pulls out a non-magical measuring tape and starts taking a rather bewildered Black’s measurements. He had anticipated that they wouldn’t be permitted to carry wands or any other magical items within the bowels of the fortress, so he had come prepared. Pulling out his notebook, Sherlock jots down the numbers.

“Did you see a Dark Mark on Pettigrew?” Sherlock asks, after sitting back down.

Black shakes his head. “I didn’t get to see his arm, unfortunately. But he said it, while he was goading me on the street – that he had joined Voldemort. And that his Master would be most pleased with his work.”

There is a knock at the door, before the door swings open.

_Forty-one._

_Forty-three._

“Time is up.” The harsh tones of a dark-robed and grim-faced prison guard bring the questioning to a halt.

“Remus… hug me… please…” Black stands up slowly, while Remus walks forward and embraces him. “Who knows when I will get any form of human contact – if ever again.”

“I will try and visit – I swear.” Remus gives Black another hug, before the dementors enter the room, to take back their prisoner/prey. “Hang in there.”

“Remus, my old friend – I do not deserve your friendship – but nevertheless – thank you. Thank you.”

.

.

“Will you be alright?” Anthea looks concernedly at Sherlock when they disembark the watercraft, back at the pier.

Sherlock shoves his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “Rest assured that I will not be indulging in any chemical recreation, or any other acts of self-harm – Anthea.” He then looks at her. With hesitation, he says. “Thank you. This was not an easy journey for you to make.”

“Nor for you.” Anthea acknowledges. “Whatever it is that you’ve done, Sherlock – I am sure that he has long forgiven you for it. He…” She trails off, suddenly taking in the setting sun painting hues of yellow, orange, red and purple onto the sky and sparkling sea, while Sherlock marvels at her cunning insight – that whatever he had done had involved his brother. “He… cares for you… very much.”

“You don’t understand…” Sherlock says despairingly.

“Sherlock. I know your brother. His capacity for forgiveness towards you… is unlimited. Much to my chagrin at times.” Anthea whispers, as Remus walks over.

“Same time as the usual, Sherlock – tomorrow?” Remus asks; his mood still very much somber.

“Yes. The usual.” Sherlock nods.

“Good. I shall see you then.” Remus turns and heads for the Apparition point, located in the forest further inland.

“Shall I escort you home, then?” Anthea asks carefully.

“No need.” Sherlock waves her offer away. “There is somewhere I would like to stop by first.”

“As you wish.” Anthea does not look entirely happy with Sherlock’s decision.

.

.

“Well, this is certainly a first.” Forest remarks as he opens the door of his muggle London flat, permitting Sherlock entry.

“Don’t get used to it.” Sherlock replies gruffly.

Forest laughs, “Of course not. Merlin forbid you darken my doors again. May I offer you some dinner?”

Sherlock nods, and Forest strides to the kitchen, his elegant and bespoke green robes flutter with his lithe motions. Somehow, the tight and form-fitting casual dark muggle jeans that Forest wears beneath add to his ensemble. Sherlock sits down at the circular dining table. He watches as Forest scurries around the kitchen, warming leftovers that he had cooked earlier in the day. As a gay man, Sherlock enjoys seeing Forest, especially his bum – and this is an arse that Sherlock has carnal knowledge of.

After they eat – a quiet meal consisting of a hearty vegetarian lasagna, a simple garden salad and a glass of _Firewhiskey_ each; Forest had deduced that Sherlock was not in the mood for talking and had acted accordingly – Sherlock pushes Forest firmly against the tan coloured walls of his living room and kisses him – trying to replicate what he had seen in that past memory. Forest kisses back, and their tongues tangle gently together; it is a nice and comfortable kiss, but that is it – it lacks the intensity; the fervor of the kiss with his brother.

“Merlin, what brought this on?” Forest pushes Sherlock off of him. “You aren’t exactly a kisser, not that I am complaining – mind you. Wait… Don’t answer that – let I, Forest, the Great Detective – deduce.”

Sherlock chuckles at the mocking tone Forest uses, while those green-gold eyes look intently at him. “You went to Azkaban today. It’s not a pleasant place, although I have never been. You might be here for comfort, but I don’t think that’s the entire story. Hm…” Forest scratches his chin with a finger, while Sherlock finds himself wondering why he had come here at all. He just feels lost; he is not ready to face Mycroft after rediscovering this memory that had been hidden so well from his conscious brain. And Forest was the only one that Sherlock could talk to about Mycroft.

“Have you ever done _Rapture_?” Sherlock asks.

“Fuck, no. Do you know how bloody expensive and difficult and dangerous that one is to make? It was discovered after some brewer fucked up _Felix Felicis_ in a lucky way… Oh, bloody hell –“ Forest’s eyes widen. “You’ve done it. Merlin – of bloody –“

“A long time ago.” Sherlock admits.

“Was the high as good as they said it was? Did it show you your heart’s desire? There is so many fakes going on around with that particular Potion.” Forest starts asking a burst of questions.

“It did show me my heart’s desire… But it ended in such an upsetting way, that I repressed the memory, until Azkaban – kind of brought it to the surface… Fuck… Forest – don’t take it.”

“I won’t then.” Forest smiles slightly, “How is things with your brother going? I take it – not good – since you are here trying to get it on with me.”

“Our relationship is fine. I…” Sherlock trails off.

“Oh – that _Rapture_ – it had something to do with your brother? That would make the most logical sense. Something happened between you two. It makes sense though. You are here, instead of being at home. You bring up _Rapture_ , when you never talk about recreational substances these days. You kissed me – you don’t usually initiate – I do.” Forest deduces. “Damn. It’s a bit like _Felix_. Probably guided you down a rabbit hole, or something –“

“Forest – I seduced my brother. We almost had sex.”

“Oh… wow. Amazing. That explains… so much.” Forest is speechless. He recovers his faculties quickly. “Sherlock. Go home. Go kiss your brother – not me. I refuse to be a substitute. And, don’t you even dare suggest Polyjuice Potion!”

“He was so upset, when he found out I was high.” Sherlock says, while his lips involuntarily curl into a small smile at Forest’s last sentence.

“Did he even know what you were on?” Forest asks. “It’s not something that a lot of people know of. Many rumours float around about it, but so few people have ever taken it. I know you are terrible at talking about feelings, but maybe you should talk about it with your brother.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t think I can ever look at him again.”

“Leave the dramatics to me.” Forest grins. “Sherlock, your brother still has feelings for you. If that experience hasn’t turned him off – I don’t think anything would.”

“I can’t believe you are giving up a shag.” Sherlock looks amazed.

“Oh – believe me, I can see it – you know. You were comparing our kiss to that kiss in your memory. I am not that unobservant. I do have standards.”

Sherlock snorts.

Forest gives him the finger.

.

.

It is a rather glum looking Sherlock that returns home. Mycroft had just put Xavi to bed and is in the process of eating a late dinner, when Sherlock emerges into the kitchen. There is something obviously bothering his little brother, for Sherlock wordlessly takes out a tumbler from a cupboard and pours out several fingers worth of potent _Firewhiskey_ from the first bottle he grabs from the alcohol rack.

When Sherlock pulls out a chair opposite of Mycroft and sits down, Mycroft can deduce from the smell that clings onto his brother that this glass is not Sherlock’s first of the evening. And there is the scent of something else about his person – and Mycroft frowns reflexively – he recognizes it; it is the unique cologne that Forest Malfoy likely brews himself and wears. Malfoy would be the type of individual to make his own scent.

Mycroft sighs. It is easy to see what happened. Something terrible must have happened at Azkaban, and Sherlock had presumably gone to his paramour for comfort. Likely of the sexual kind. The familiar jealousy simmers within him; he wishes that he could be the first person his little brother turns to for support and comfort. At least he should be happy that his brother had turned to Forest and alcohol for his troubles, rather than the illicit drugs, but he finds it a small comfort. Mycroft wants to ask about Sherlock’s day, but he doesn’t know how to start, considering the unreadable expression on his brother’s face.

When Sherlock finishes his drink, he looks contemplative. Hesitant even. Mycroft hates it. He wishes that Sherlock could trust him implicitly with his problems. Had he been such a bad brother that justified Sherlock being afraid to tell him things?

Sherlock swallows nervously, and he begins to speak. “There is a memory… brother… that I had forgotten from years ago. But… it came back, while we were going to Azkaban.” His brother suddenly slumps onto the table in despair, while Mycroft is starting to feel rather horrified; there is an excellent chance that Sherlock is talking about _that_ night. Which had not been Mycroft’s finest evening. A moment of weakness due to sentiment. His brother had been high, Mycroft had somehow failed to notice and had taken advantage of it. Granted, Sherlock had started it – but as the elder brother – he should have dealt with it differently – instead of kissing Sherlock into oblivion and almost engaging in sexual congress with his brother.

And the worse thing is that Mycroft still thinks about this night, frequently – and sometimes, much to his infinite shame – Mycroft even wanks to the memory. He knows what it feels like to kiss Sherlock in the French style, how it feels to have an almost naked Sherlock pinned under him in a bed – all that deliciously smooth pale skin! – those delectable needy sounds that his brother makes when aroused – and on and so forth. That night had effectively ruined any hopes that Mycroft would ever be able to get over his feelings for his brother and to have a relationship with someone else.

Mycroft is prepared for Sherlock to hate him for that night, maybe a scathing comment or two, but what comes out of his brother’s mouth almost breaks him.

But then again, Mycroft has always been terrible at deducing his brother during the moments where it really matters.

“How can you not despise me, big brother?”


	11. The Wand at the Graveyard

Mycroft’s cool composure crumbles with his words. Sherlock dares to crane his neck upwards from his slumped position on the rosewood, observing Mycroft’s eyes; the once calm blue now betraying turbulent emotion. Sherlock realizes then that he had not actually specified which memory; the odds seem to favour that Mycroft is indeed thinking about that blasted memory. Unlike the anger and despair he remembers that his brother had expressed all those years ago, there is a warm tenderness masked under the regret emanating from Mycroft now. His big brother leans forward, placing one of his large hands on top of one of Sherlock’s. It is a warm, surprisingly comforting presence.

Mycroft’s voice is husky, “Brother mine, I could never despise you. Ever.” He then asks, somewhat hesitantly, as if terrified to hear the answer, “What exactly do you remember of that night?”

“That I spent all my galleons on a recreational Potion.” Sherlock replies, somewhat wryly.

“You were definitely high. I noticed far too late.” Mycroft says with self-reproach. His next words betray disappointment. “There wasn’t a list that night. You promised. Brother.”

“You noticed when my high wore off.” Sherlock continues airing his remembrances, “And I am sorry that there was no list. I didn’t even remember what I took until yesterday. But, brother… we were kissing. And, I –“

Mycroft winces visibly.

“I liked it.” Sherlock finishes.

“You… liked it?” Mycroft sounds absolutely dazed.

“I liked it very much, big brother… Loved it even.”

“You loved it?”

It is rare to see his brother so caught off balance.

Mycroft suddenly looks suspicious. “How much booze did you drink – exactly? I refuse to participate in this conversation any further if you aren’t sober enough to remember this the next day.”

“Enough to be able to have this conversation.” Sherlock’s cheek is rewarded with a sharp glare. “I had one tumbler’s worth with Forest. Another one at a bar near his flat. And, of course, the one I had in front of you. Big brother, I solemnly promise – that I will remember this. Please, believe me.” He looks pleadingly at Mycroft. “And, no illicit substances!”

Mycroft scrutinizes him, “Your pupils are dilated.”

“Mycroft… it’s not because of cocaine.” Sherlock shakes his head; it is his turn to lean forward, closer to his brother. “I liked it when you touched me.” Sherlock continues mercilessly, noticing Mycroft’s blush. “And I loved it when your cock –“

“Okay, brother – I got the point!” Mycroft interrupts hastily.

But then Sherlock says, abruptly changing the mood, “I distinctly remember – before you left – you said that what I did was cruel. And, perhaps – it was.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sounds guilty. “You were high. I took advantage of you. I was furious with myself when I left – and I said that to you out of anger. Aside from buying and taking that damned substance – this wasn’t your fault – little brother. I wanted to apologize, but I was a coward – and you never brought it up again…”

 “I forgot all about it. And you didn’t take advantage of me – I wanted it.” Sherlock reveals. He then asks, “What do we do now?” He flips his hand over so that he could hold his brother’s hand.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighs. “I want you to be completely sober. And I want you to think about this. Carefully.”

“So, you aren’t going to kiss me?” Sherlock asks, the epitome of innocence.

He watches the conflict play out in Mycroft’s face – but the fun is interrupted when the sounds of Xavi’s crying fill the space. Mycroft pulls out the magically charmed pocket-sized baby-monitor, and Sherlock sighs. His brother gets up from the table, breaking their linked hands and Sherlock follows.

“You are still an impertinent brat.” Mycroft sighs as he mounts the stairs.

“Did you expect any different?”

.

.

Sherlock paces the nursery – or rather, Xavi’s room – with the little boy sobbing in his arms, crooning what sounded suspiciously like a lullaby.

Mycroft had been right – that his brother needed some responsibility – and the result is beautiful to behold. He looks on from the plush armchair as Sherlock laps the room; Xavi’s cries growing softer with time.

Eventually, Sherlock places a gentle kiss on the boy’s forehead, and tucks him into the crib by carefully draping a panda-patterned blanket over his body. He places Xavi’s favourite stuffed animal – currently a fluffy polar bear – within arm’s reach.

As he does this, Mycroft stands up. Quietly, he sneaks upon his brother – taking advantage of the fluffy white rug to muffle his steps. When Sherlock raises the side-rail of the crib, Mycroft gently wraps an arm around his brother’s slender waist.

“I thought you wanted me to think about it?” Sherlock visibly shivers at his touch.

“I do.” Mycroft whispers as he guides his brother out of the room, his limb never leaving Sherlock’s waist. “I couldn’t resist.”

Sherlock snaps his fingers, plunging Xavi’s room into darkness, while Mycroft closes the door silently behind them. They are standing at the landing, the space dimly lit. Sherlock slowly twists around, carefully encircling his brother’s waist with his own arms. Sighing – suddenly exhausted from the emotionality and the length of the day – he buries his face against Mycroft’s shoulder, smelling the faint distinctive scent of cologne, the Greek leftovers Mycroft had eaten earlier and all the other aromas that remind Sherlock that he is home. He feels the pressure of Mycroft’s other arm pressing somewhat possessively against his lower back. There is the lightest, barely perceptible brush of lips against his forehead, before they reluctantly break apart.

“Good-night, brother mine.” The words fall tenderly from Mycroft’s lips, before he turns around and disappears behind his bedroom door, leaving Sherlock standing, somewhat dazed.

.

.

“I can’t believe you are helping _him_!” Snape sneers while he slices his grundyroots savagely, the knife making abrasive percussive noises against the wooden cutting board. “He can bloody rot in Azkaban, for all I care.”

“It is an interesting case.” Sherlock simply states, his eyes roaming across the plethora of herbs and other plants growing in small decorative pots strung along the laboratory wall, assessing which ones are ready to be harvested. “What do you know of Peter Pettigrew?”

Snape practically spits out his answer. “Pathetic, mousy little thing. Always tagging along with Potter and his ilk. Why bother with him?” His cauldron emits a belching sound when the sliced grundyroots hit the pale amber liquid with a gentle splash.

“Apparently…” Sherlock pauses for dramatic emphasis, “He has defected to the Dark Lord. Were you aware of this? It was he, not Black that sold the Potters out.”

“That is ludicrous.” Snape snorts derisively. He turns his attention away from the cauldron and eyes Sherlock warily. “You are serious!”

“Deadly serious.” Sherlock replies, “Why would I lie to you about this?”

“Pettigrew would have never had the guts to do this.” Snape shakes his head, while dicing several ginseng roots.

“But the facts remain that he did. Black’s story just corroborated all the facts.” Sherlock says with some satisfaction. “You should grate the ginseng; it increases the surface area and that will intensify the rate of the reaction – therefore shortening your brew period by precisely three-quarters.”

“Piss off.” Snape mutters darkly, but he pulls out a grater and carries out Sherlock’s suggestion anyways.

Snape carries on brewing his Anti-Paralysis potion. Strictly, Aymeri’s laboratory is an academic one, but Forest, Snape and Sherlock had gotten a contract to brew some Potions for a few Wizarding outpatient medical clinics for some extra money. Forest really didn’t need the galleons, but Sherlock and Snape had needed it – although Sherlock now no longer has to worry about his finances, thanks to his inheritance and abolished drugs habit. Amongst the three of them, the brewing goes quick and it keeps their skills sharp.

Sherlock simply continues speaking minutes later, after he had checked up on all the flora growing in the lab. “We’ve reached an impasse, I am afraid. We don’t know where Pettigrew has gone since that night, after blowing up the street and framing Black…”

“I am surprised Dumbledore doesn’t know about this.” Snape interrupts, his hair swinging like curtains as he takes the copper cauldron off the fire to immerse it into the dry ice bath that he had set out earlier, with a Temperature charm to keep the ice frozen. A large puff of smoke blows from the top of the cauldron, perfuming the air with the strong scent of ginseng. “Although, these days, he’s rather preoccupied with the whereabouts of the last Potter. He still hasn’t got a clue, frankly.”

Sherlock lazily waves his wand, banishing the strong odorous molecules from the air. “You see, for men like Dumbledore and the Dark Lord…” _And his brother._ “People are chess pieces. They exist for a purpose. And once your purpose is finished – or done, he will not follow up with the consequences as long as the desired event or goal has been achieved. They reason to themselves – the ends justify the means. And maybe they are right.”

“And what was Black’s purpose?” Snape wonders distastefully while looking at a timer, just as Sherlock walks to the far side of the room; due to the sudden heat and cold – there is a decent (probably unlikely) risk of Snape’s cauldron exploding if the metal of the cauldron is not pure enough.

“You mentioned something to me a while back…” Sherlock thinks as he swings himself onto the resistant surface of his lab bench space. “Something about a prophecy…” He clasps his hands together in his ‘thinking’ pose. “Something about the person who can put an end to the Dark Lord for good. Someone born at the end of the seventh month – which coincidentally happens to be little Harry’s birthday. And, I am sure the Potters must have defied good old Voldemort the required number of times –“

“But, Holmes.” Snape says, while snapping on a pair of heavy-duty dragon leather gloves. “The Longbottoms of the Order of the Phoenix also have a son…”

“I know. You said that too back then.” Sherlock sighs. “I bet you a potful of galleons that it matters which boy the Dark Lord decided to target that faithful night. After all, you only heard the first part of that damned prophecy. And Dumbledore said nothing?”

“You forget.” Snape pulls out the cauldron and sets it back over the flames, where the amber liquid promptly turns into a shimmering turquoise. “I am one of the chess pieces. A true puller of the strings would never leave all their information in one basket.” There is a self-deprecating tone in Snape’s syllables.

“Then we should try and find another way.” Sherlock muses. “Well, let’s leave that problem for now. We know Dumbledore is obsessed with little Harry – because he would have been the ultimate pawn for his schemes. I am more concerned about our friend Pettigrew for the moment.”

“The Dark Lord never informed us of Pettigrew’s participation in our ranks. It must have been a secret.” Snape sits down on his stool, letting the potion simmer. He pulls out a quill and starts jotting down a few notes in a hardcover notebook.

“It could have been.” Sherlock says.

“You know what, Holmes. I will take you to examine all of the Dark Lord’s hideouts that I am aware of – if they still exist. Perhaps we can gleam some information from what is left behind, before all the other Death Eaters come and destroy whatever evidence that remains once the Aurors finish processing Black’s case.”

“Might be for the best.” Sherlock agrees. “We have no leads to go upon.”

“Tomorrow. We will go. Under the cover of darkness.” Snape then sighs, “Might be a good idea to bring your lackey with us. Forest should come as well. Bring a broom. Could be dangerous.”

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes before waving his farewell at Snape before walking out to the heavily warded _Apparition_ zone set up out of the brewing space.

.

.

“You are going to what?” Mycroft asks for clarification over the dinner table – laden this time with a hearty meal of T-bone steak, roasted potatoes and vegetables. This is Mycroft’s favourite type of meal, although in an effort to be more health-conscious these days, he rarely indulges in this sort of food.

“Go to some of Voldemort’s hideouts tomorrow. We should take a look before some of the Death Eaters get scared and start razing things to the ground.” Sherlock cuts a piece of well marbled meat and feeds a choice bite to an eager Xavi.

“Is that not dangerous?” Mycroft asks, while taking a bite of potato.

“I like dangerous things, brother.” Sherlock smiles. “I will be careful, I promise.”

“That is very reassuring, brother mine.” Mycroft sighs, but he knows there is nothing he can do to talk Sherlock out of these insane ideas without causing a row. And, Mycroft really isn’t interested in picking a fight – especially when he is so close to getting what he had wanted for a long time from his little brother. Neither of them had brought up the events of yesterday, but Mycroft knows that Sherlock hadn’t forgotten anything from last night from the way his little brother looks at him, the way he licks his lips and how his body language seems to be mirroring Mycroft’s.

“You should be happy I didn’t visit any of these locations when Voldemort was still around.” Sherlock cuts some potatoes for Xavi – although the little boy appears to have a weaker affinity for these potatoes compared to the heavenly Greek potatoes from the last meal Sherlock had made.

“Thank heavens for small mercies.” Mycroft sighs again, while pouring himself some more Merlot from the bottle.

The dinner passes amiably enough, and they both get up to do the dishes without the use of magic while Xavi looks on from his highchair. They both play with Xavi after dinner, building little block towers with him. Rather – it is more like Mycroft and Sherlock building the structures and Xavi cheerfully knocking them over – leaving messes in his wake. Mycroft reads to Xavi afterwards – a big children’s book – with interactive things in it to touch and feel on his favourite armchair in the living room, while Sherlock grabs his violin and plays some Bach.

After when Xavi gets tucked into his crib, Sherlock takes a tentative step towards Mycroft – as if unsure of where their relationship currently stands. Mycroft simply smiles, pulls his brother towards him and kisses him on the cheek – and he whispers, “Sweet dreams, little brother.” before giving Sherlock a teasing wink and vanishing behind his bedroom door. Sherlock knows that Mycroft has a very early day ahead of him tomorrow.

Sherlock groans – realizing that their relationship is going to proceed at this glacial rate – and runs down to the basement to busy himself with brewing Potions in his makeshift brew space. It made sense, really – that Mycroft is going to take things literally at a snail’s pace this time around.

.

.

It had turned out that Snape’s hunch had been right. The Death Eaters had been destroying the evidence; three of the hideouts that Snape had brought the group to had been reduced to rubble and smoldering ashes. But the last one, the abandoned manor at Little Hangleton, is what remains. The manor stands tall in the distance, with an air of neglect about it. The crescent of moon hangs in the sky, along with twinkling stars against the dark backdrop, for there is a limited amount of light pollution in the sleepy muggle town.

It is a cold night; a prelude to the wintry weather that lies ahead.

“Only the ones closest to the Dark Lord knows about this particular spot.” Snape says quietly as they dismount.

Sherlock slings his broom – the latest model of Cleansweep – across his back, while the others shrink or simply hold on to their broomsticks.

“It certainly has that grim, abandoned look of an evil lair.” Forest remarks, while Snape whispers snappily, “Hush. We go quietly.”

“Is this a Muggle graveyard, Snape?” Sherlock asks as they walk by a grim looking cemetery.

“Yes.” Snape says.

“Mind if we take a peek?” Sherlock is already heading for the unlocked ornate metal gates, while Snape sighs.

“What good is here?” Snape asks quietly, while Sherlock surveys the stones, both simple and extravagant. Vaults and proud mausoleums dot the space. An eerie sounding wind blows through the leafless trees, punctuated by rustles of the naked branches.

“Merlin, this is creepy.” Remus shivers, “Do we need a light?”

“No need to advertise our presence,” Snape whispers, “Besides, the moon is bright enough – Lupin.”

Sherlock does not know where he is going, but there is something luring him in.

There is something magical calling to him – a siren’s song of power. He strides over graves, before eventually coming to a stop in front of a large opulent marble gravestone with an angel guarding the dead’s eternal rest. A scythe sits in its bony hands, while a skeletal face looks upon the interlopers.

“What in fucking hell are you doing?” Forest exclaims, his voice echoing in the space when Sherlock takes his wand out and starts digging – feeling magic buried beneath the earth.

“Grave-robbing, clearly. Do kindly shut up, Forest.” Snape reprimands.

“Thomas Riddle. Mary Riddle. Tom Riddle Senior.” Remus traces the inscriptions etched into the marble with his leather clad gloves. He wonders, “Who were they?”

“We ought to have respect for the dead.” Forest shakes his head before Sherlock lets out a quiet sound of triumph.

Sherlock pulls out a slender box, wrapped in a set of dark robes. When he opens the box, Snape gasps. “That’s his wand. The Dark Lord’s wand.”

Sherlock closes the box after taking a quick glance at the pale yew wood, and hides it in his robes, while Forest busies himself with covering the deep hole that Sherlock had dug to find it. A loud rustle causes everyone to stop and freeze as they start departing from the graveyard. The sound of footsteps approach, causing Sherlock’s heart to beat quicker. He can sense the magic of these individuals pulsing through their arteries and their veins – perfusing their very beings. He crouches into a dueling stance, his own wand clutched firmly in his dominant hand. The others react similarly, while a familiar silky voice dripping with contempt greets.

“Well, well, well – fancy meeting you here, brother.”


	12. A Conversation with Garrick

The antique grandfather clock in the foyer chimes for midnight. Blearily staring at the pile of paperwork, Mycroft reaches up to stifle a yawn. The familiar worry gnaws at him. Sherlock is late. Taking the tumbler of whiskey from the dining table, he sips at the amber liquid. He hopes that his brother is fine – how many times did he sit here wondering if Sherlock had overdosed in some sordid drug house? And now, he worries about the remnants of the Dark Lord’s unsavoury army… 

A sigh of relief escapes him when the warning chimes emit from the front door. He hears Sherlock quietly open said door – there is always an unavoidable telltale creak – and the sounds of his brother removing his outerwear. Sherlock sweeps into the kitchen – having seen the light. No injuries. No signs of intoxication. Just shivering from the cold. Under the orangey-yellow incandescent lights of the kitchen, his brother looks wan – emphasized by his bespoke dark robes. 

There is an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes are gazing at Mycroft – iridescent blue-green irises looking more intensely blue by the second under the lighting. A hand rests on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“You… waited for me…” Sherlock observes, his voice soft – almost fragile. 

“Of course I did, brother mine.” Mycroft replies – his syllables affectionate. He neglects to mention that he does not sleep well when Sherlock isn’t present in the house when he ought to be. 

“You work tomorrow.” 

“Of small importance.” Mycroft shrugs. Having enough of the small talk, he cuts to the chase. “Anything of interest?” 

“We were too late. Many of the hideouts had been cleared out or destroyed. However…” From the folds of his robes, Sherlock pulls out a foreign wand. Its handle is wrapped in a piece of cloth. 

Pale. Yew. A handle carved of ivory. Source of ivory – unknown. Not elephant, walrus, narwhal, hippopotamus – not a non-magical creature. Powerful. Mycroft almost shivers when he senses the magic emanating from it. But at the same time – it fills him with revulsion. Heinous… heinous deeds have been committed with this wand. 

“Voldemort’s wand.” Sherlock remarks. “We ran into some DE afterwards, but we talked our way out of it. Lucius Malfoy was there. As was Bellatrix Lestrange and the Lestrange brothers. I believe… that they were looking for this wand. It is my deduction that Peter Pettigrew retrieved the Dark Lord’s wand from Godric’s Hollow and left it at the graveyard for some of Voldemort’s sympathizers to find.”

“Well, I’d say you were just in time to take the wand, brother dear.” Mycroft remarks. From his brother’s words, he didn’t expect a fight to break out either. People with political ambitions like Forest’s half-brother – Lucius – would be desperately trying to rebuild their reputations and will distance himself from anything associated with the Dark Lord. No doubt he will have a yarn in place to claim that he was coerced into joining the ranks of the DE. He then adds. “I sent Edward Winters an owl earlier.”

“Did you really?” His brother sounds surprised.

“Seeing that you agreed to an alliance, I think we better seal it the old-fashioned way. I know you don’t care for such particulars – but rituals… especially among the wizarding elite mean something. And we should share intel about what we know about the world post-the Dark Lord.” 

“That might actually be helpful.” Sherlock’s mind is whirling quickly. “I can think of a few things that he could help us with. But brother… I tire of this shop talk.” A sigh escapes his brother; he suddenly looks exhausted.

Mycroft stands up and reaches out to touch his brother’s cold cheek – his thumb lightly brushing against a sharp zygomatic arch. “You really ought to use those Temperature-Regulating Charms.”

Sherlock leans into his brother’s palm – looking surprisingly relaxed. “Forest always tells me that. I just forget. Mm… My... just kiss me.” 

His hand automatically guides Sherlock’s face to his own. God. He can’t believe he gets to do this. Well – not since  _ that _ night… Cautiously, he allows his lips to brush lightly against Sherlock’s plush ones for a first kiss where both parties are sober. His brother’s lips feel cold and slightly chapped from the wind, but nevertheless they are soft against his own. His brother mirrors his movements – having more finesse than those sloppy kisses they had shared all those years ago. Their noses nuzzle against each other – and Sherlock gasps when Mycroft flicks his tongue teasingly against Sherlock’s lips. Separating, they take the chance to breathe. 

There is a delicate flush colouring his brother’s cheeks – and Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. His fingers plunge into the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head – and he kisses those lips again – taking the time to explore the contours, spending time at that delicious cupid’s bow. The snog grows ardent and Mycroft has to stop when Sherlock repeats Mycroft’s previous trick with the tongue and cunningly slips his tongue into his mouth to tangle with his own.

“Too much?” Sherlock breathes. 

“A bit.” Mycroft nods. “I am… sorry – brother mine.”

His arm encircles his brother’s shoulders and he hugs Sherlock to his body. His brother’s head rests on his shoulder, his face touching Mycroft’s neck. 

“Don’t be.” There is a sadness in Sherlock’s voice. “I fucked it up royally the first time…”

“Taking drugs aside, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Mycroft caresses his brother’s back – not wanting him to feel down. His own reluctance to progress the physical aspect of their relationship is frustrating to him as well. But contrary to public belief, he cannot control how he feels. “Come, brother – let’s shower, and you can sleep with me if you want…”

“Just sleep?”

“There can be touching and cuddling.” Mycroft elaborates.

“Alright. I shall meet you in bed.” Sherlock bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

.

.

“You certainly look chipper this morning.” Remus remarks when he meets Sherlock at  _ Diagon _ the next day. 

“Hello to you too, Remus.” Sherlock cannot help but smile as he passes a bundled up Xavi into Remus’ arms. 

Sherlock had experienced one of his most refreshing sleeps last night – serving as the ‘little spoon’. It had brought forth memories of their childhood, where toddler Sherlock insisted on following his older big brother to bed. One of their house elves – Dori – had joked that they might as well return Sherlock’s toddler bed to the store. 

Ah. If there was anything at all that Sherlock missed from the grotesque monstrosity that served as the Holmes’ Manor – it was the house elves. They had provided affection, treats and entertainment – aside from Mycroft – in a childhood where children should be seen for appearances’ sake. Like status symbols. 

“Ree-ree!” Xavi calls out as Remus gives the little boy a hug.

“And, hello to you too!” Remus smiles brightly at Xavi. “So – where to?”

“Ollivander’s – I want to have a little discussion with him about wandlore. I have a little idea of what we could do to find Pettigrew. But… Remus.” Sherlock’s voice grows quiet on the relatively empty street, as it is a weekday. “We ought to find some way for Black to escape before he turns insane like the rest of the inmates. You know how slow the wheels of bureaucracy turn.”

“That –  sounds impossible!” Remus exclaims as they notice the first flurries of December drift and dance in the air. 

“Ah, I am sure amongst our brains we will think of something. I mean people have done it before…” Sherlock offers a smirk, before setting off towards Ollivander’s – wrapping his blue scarf tighter around his neck. 

.

.

“Ah, Holmes! And Lupin!” Garrick Ollivander greets as Sherlock enters – holding the door for Remus. “I certainly didn’t expect you two to show up – and curious! Hullo there – little one! Ah – I take it this little one is yours – Holmes? He has your curls – and there is an elegance of his bone structure that reminds me of your sire.”

“Indeed, he is mine, Ollivander – meet my son – Xavi.” Sherlock finds himself smiling proudly. “And, please call me Sherlock. I think we can drop the last names by now.”

And – it is gratifying to hear that the Blood-Adoption magicks are working – slowly transforming little Xavi into a member of the Holmes family. Mycroft had observed earlier this morning that Xavi is looking a bit more like Sherlock with every day that passes by when they were having breakfast.

“And – I, Remus. I am helping Sherlock with his research.”

“Then… you can call me Garrick. I take it that your wands are serving you well?” 

“As ever.” Remus and Sherlock both nod.

“So, how may I help you two out today?” Garrick is all business. 

“A matter of wandlore… if you have a moment to chat.”

“It’s a slow day anyways for business. Ha. Most days are – except when the children are buying their wands in preparation for whichever Wizarding school they choose to attend. Come with me – we will have some tea and conversation.”

They follow the wandmaker past the shelves full of wands and wand-care products and to the back – a magically enhanced space with a sitting area and a kitchen. Garrick gestures for them to sit at a polished round wooden table, which they do. With a lazy flick of his wand, Sherlock conjures a high-chair – so that Remus didn’t have to hold Xavi for the entire time they are here.

Remus gives Sherlock a thankful look, and deposits Xavi into the wooden chair. Sherlock pulls out some colourful wooden blocks with the letters of the alphabet etched on them from the pockets of his robes and places them in front of Xavi who proceeds to make cheerful noises. 

“Here we are – the tea.” Garrick pours a cuppa out for each of them, before summoning a tray of condiments and a plate of baked goods – an assortment of biscuits – including gingernuts. Sherlock’s hand automatically reaches out for one. 

“So…” The wandmaker sits down. “What do you wish to know?”

Sherlock pulls out the yew wand with a linen napkin wrapped around its handle and passes it over to Ollivander. A glimmer of recognition shines in the wandmaker’s silvery eyes as he feels the wood of the wand. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches long. Yew. Phoenix feather core. Powerful.” He then looks at the wand thoughtfully. “I didn’t think I would see this particular wand again. This belonged to a man named… Tom Marvolo Riddle. I wonder… what became of him…?” 

“Ah… Garrick – this wand belonged to an entity that we knew as Lord Voldemort.” Remus speaks. “This information was confirmed by one of his former Death Eaters that had been part of his inner circle.” 

“Curious. Curious – indeed. If true… I guess even the Dark Lord has roots. And such humble ones! A charming boy – Tom Riddle was. Came from the muggle orphanage with Albus… ah – so long ago. Inquisitive! The questions he had! When he reached for his wand – this very wand – I knew he would go on to do great things…”

“Terrible things…” Sherlock says rather wryly. 

“Fings!” Xavi chirps from his chair, while proceeding to bang two blocks together in a percussive rhythm. 

“Ah. Both great and terrible things.” Ollivander amends, shaking his head. He takes a sip of the Breakfast after putting in a bit of milk and a sprinkling of sugar. 

“Fing Fings!” Xavi continues to chant – apparently acquiring a new word into his vocabulary – before proceeding to nibble on a block. 

Remus takes the block out of Xavi’s mouth and offers a chocolate chip cookie instead. 

“I can sense the foulness of the magic that this wand has performed throughout the years…” Sherlock observes. “But – Garrick – what you said earlier – that the wand  _ belonged  _ to a man…”

“You had always been a bright boy – Sherlock.” Garrick smiles – looking almost insane under the lighting with his messy white hair sticking up everywhere like a lion’s mane. “I will give you an observation. Wands have been noted to change their allegiances after events such as a duel.” 

“Oh.” It is Remus who interjects. “So – if I disarm Sherlock…” 

Sherlock chuckles. He hasn’t been disarmed in years. 

Ignoring him, Remus continues. “And take his wand – it would… perhaps – work for me.”

“Perhaps.” Ollivander nods, his eyes twinkling mysteriously. 

“So… following this logic. The being known as the Dark Lord – once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle – hey.” Sherlock grins before he goes on a tangent. “I couldn’t assume that the Dark Lord used to be Riddle but look at this!” Summoning his wand – he conjures the letters of ‘TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE’ into the air – and with a lazy poke – the letters rearrange themselves into…

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

Hm… and Riddle had been the name they saw on the gravestones last night… Another avenue of investigation perhaps. But it is another piece of circumstantial evidence that Lord Voldemort could have been Tom Riddle...

“Damn, you must be good at those newspaper puzzles.” Remus chuckles. 

“I am.” Sherlock says. “Mycroft loves those puzzles, so I was always determined to finish them before him during the earlier years when I was living with him.”

“Nothing like a little sibling rivalry.” Remus laughs. “Or spite.”

“Okay – going back to the topic at hand. So – Lord Voldemort goes to Godric’s Hollow to eliminate the Potters. He kills the husband, then the wife – and directs his wand towards the child – and then the  _ Avada Kedavra  _ rebounds – presumably destroying him. So – who will this wand work for?”

“Logically – then – the boy.” Garrick is fidgeting with his fingers in excitement. “I guess Sherlock – you were on scene to reconstruct the events?”

“Yes I was. I went when I heard about it. But that’s another story.” He waves it away and redirects the conversation. “But – if the boy is too young – would a close relation be able to handle the wand?” 

“Ah – Sherlock – that I cannot definitively say. Why don’t you try it out?” Garrick is now grinning. “Come on. Try it. Like back when you were eleven.” 

Sherlock shudders visibly when he picks up the wand in his bare hand. He had been keeping it covered every time he had to handle it. None of the wands that he had handled in Ollivander’s shop back when he was eleven had felt like this. 

“You have to remember – a wand is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ depending on its wizard or its witch.” Ollivander offers. “You could – perhaps change its bloody and cruel trajectory.”

Something simple then. If he cast  _ Incendio _ it could light the entire place up into flames. And – no thanks – he preferred his own wand...

“ _ Lumos. _ ” He whispers – and the beam of light that radiates from the wand tip is so bright that everyone averts their eyes. 

“ _ Nox. _ ” He then incants, extinguishing the light. 

He then flicks the wand again – and a bouquet of fiery lilies emerge from the tip and drop onto the table. Another swish and a glass vase is conjured. 

_ “Aguamenti. _ ” Sherlock then points the wand to the vase, filling it with water. 

Drawing a arc with the wand, he drops the lilies into the vase. 

“Well, I suppose you have your answer, Sherlock.” Ollivander remarks – terribly amused. “Thank you for the flowers. They are quite lovely.”

“Your wandwork is rather lazy.” Remus finally observes. “I’ve never had a chance to see you cast the basics until now.”

“Remus.” Garrick turns to him. “Wandwork is an artifice. Long ago – we cast without wands. But it is difficult to concentrate your magic into the spells. Wizards and witches would take years to master control of their magicks to direct them into spells. Wands took that problem away and they further amplified our powers manyfold. And we have wand movements and incantations to help us focus on channeling our magic into what we want to do. But – when you become very good at casting – it’s better to not use the traditional wand movements and incantations especially in duels. Then – you become absolutely unpredictable. For example – learning Non-Verbal spells during your NEWTs. Altering your wand gestures is the next level.”

“Exactly what I wanted to say.” Sherlock gives a mocking bow. Magic is a mental process; although these days everyone casts mindlessly, relying on what they had learned at school. “I have to say – thank you – Garrick, for the information and the tea.” 

“I have to say – thank you for a most fascinating discussion and demonstration.” Garrick stands up and leads them back into the shop proper. “I do hope that helps you with whatever project you have embarked on.”

“Of course.” Sherlock gives a final nod and strides out of the shop, leaving Remus to follow him with Xavi.

.

.

“ _ Point Me _ to Severus Snape.” Sherlock asks the yew wand. 

There is an odd sort of pulling sensation, and Sherlock allows the wand to spin him until he is pointing what appeared to be southeast. Damn. This would take too long to track anyone down. Even via broomstick. There had been reports of Voldemort pressing his fingers into a Death Eater’s Dark Mark to summon them to his side, but Sherlock wonders if it is possible to do the opposite – to  _ Apparate  _ to a marked DE’s side. This wand had been used to make all the Dark Marks – Sherlock is sure – so it could be the key to tracking them down. 

He sighs deeply, and then strong arms suddenly wrap around his waist. It causes him to emit a yelp of surprise, as he had not been expecting an ambush in his personal work space.

“What vexes you – little brother?” Mycroft’s breath tickles against his ear, sending little frissons throughout his body. 

“Trying to figure out if I could  _ Apparate  _ or find some Death Eaters with Voldie’s wand – big brother.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice level. “It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Perhaps – I don’t understand how these Dark Marks work… exactly… I need to talk to Snape.”

“Postpone your research, little brother. Anthea has generously taken Xavi for this evening and Saturday – so I was thinking we could go on a date?” 

“And what is your definition of date – big brother?” Sherlock asks, already feeling those symptoms of arousal. The elevated heart rate, for one. The nerves. The butterflies in his stomach.

“Where two people who like each other go out and have a bit of fun.” 

“With the potential for sex?” Sherlock asks.

“Perhaps.” Mycroft replies – his voice is almost coy. “We will see.”

“If all the planets are aligned…” Sherlock muses, earning himself a pinch on the buttock. “Hey! That’s my bum!” 

“And what a lovely one it is.” Mycroft smiles as he rubs at the abused flesh apologetically. “Let’s go get dressed. A nice dinner out in muggle London would be marvelous.”

They both leave Sherlock’s work/brew space to head upstairs for their respective bedrooms to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm... apologize for the delay in update.  
> I got stuck (writer's block) the first few attempts I tried to write 12, but it seems that I overcame it.


	13. Interrogating the Dark Mark and a First Date

“Did you see the  _ Daily Prophet  _ today?” Mycroft inquires, as he sips at his scotch.

“No. Why?” Sherlock asks, just as their waiter sweeps into their private room, dropping off their appetizers – a Dorset Crab Salad, a selection of oysters and a bowl of Jerusalem Artichoke soup – and a  _ Prince of Wales  _ for Sherlock. “And I didn’t know you followed the Wizarding News. It’s all tosh anyways – they can’t report for beans.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes slightly at his brother’s choice of drink. He would never be caught dead sipping a cocktail. The Wizarding news had become relevant to him with the adoption of Xavi. Whether he likes it or not, he is involved in the magical sphere now. Helping himself to a bit of salad, he elaborates. “Apparently, Dumbledore claims in an interview this morning that he has finally managed to locate the Potter child and has placed him in a suitable home away from the prying eyes of the Wizarding public – where he will grow up to be, to quote him, – ‘a normal boy’.”

“Fascinating.” The brows furrow in thought as Sherlock ponders. “No doubt, Mycroft – to calm the furor growing in the public about the disappearance of their ‘saviour’.” 

“A bluff. Easy. Albus Dumbledore cannot afford to lose the confidence of the Wizarding public, even during a time of peace.” Mycroft muses, wondering if Dumbledore would go as far as to substitute the Potter boy, or is this just simply a ploy to buy time for him to look for the missing child. 

“Or maybe, he thinks that claiming such a thing would be a move to reveal the whereabouts of Potter.” Sherlock offers, before drinking his cognac based cocktail. “Rather silly, don’t you think?”

“Ah, brother.” Mycroft places his hands together. He says amusedly, continuing the thought experiments. “I would imagine that whichever family that manages to get their fingers on Harry Potter would consider him as a status symbol, especially for the elite. Imagine – for instance, the Malfoys… or even the Wilkes… it would be a boon for their tarnished images, would it not?”

Sherlock snorts. “A classic dick-measuring contest. Doesn’t it ever get old for them?”

“Language.” Mycroft smirks, clearing the rest of the creamy artichoke soup. “No. One-upping has been a thing since men existed, little brother – and I would imagine that a family like the Malfoys would flaunt what they’ve got especially in such hard times.” 

“Guess he will have to be disappointed then.” Sherlock shrugs, as the waiter returns to clear their plates in preparation for the main course. 

“Yes.” Patience is something Mycroft has in spades. And, for them – it does them no good to reveal that they have the Potter boy. 

Best for Xavi to grow up in peace and quiet while he can.

He could just imagine Mummy knocking on their door for the sake of a grandchild. It had been hard enough to sever the umbilical cord, so to speak. The image is enough to send shudders through his body. Neither of them are on good terms with their parents, and Mycroft knows that neither of them wants to be. Certainly, he does not. Sherlock with his drugs, sharp tongue and rebellious ways. Mycroft and his lack of magical ability; there is no greater shame than having a child that is a squib for the Families of the most Pure Blood. 

“You know... we should think about what we should do in the event that one of our parents discovers that there is a grandchild in the picture.”

“We should just flee the country.” Mycroft grimaces. “I can see the groveling and love-bombing and gaslighting from here, Sherlock. We would need an iron curtain to block their salvos.”

“It’s inevitable.” 

They both sigh deeply at the future as their waiter returns with dishes of roasted Dover sole and a garden salad. Sherlock makes a face at the greens on Mycroft’s side. “Why are you eating salad, brother? Normally you would be feasting on the steak, or the Lake District lamb or even one of the pies!”

Mycroft freezes with the fork partway to the plate. It is true. He had originally had his eyes upon the rump steak and chips – but now that he is dating Sherlock – he might as well try to shed a few pounds. Out of the two of them, he had always been the plump one growing up. Certainly, he would never be as slender and lithe as his brother, but he could – 

“Brother.” Sherlock says sternly. “You are far from being overweight. You are… handsome.” His brother swallows, audibly – suddenly looking sad. “I am an idiot, Mycroft. You deserved none of those comments from me over the years. Here –  have some of my fish, and you  _ will _ eat dessert with me. I insist.” 

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft – don’t.” Sherlock cuts a good ⅓ off his fish and places it on an extra plate, and pushes it over toward him. “I can’t eat all of this, anyways.” 

The sole is roasted to perfection, bringing out its mildly sweet and enticing flavour. But Mycroft isn’t hungry anymore, opting to spend the rest of dinner toying halfheartedly with the vegetables in his plate. There will always be some part of the chubby boy that he had been within him; sensitive from all of Sherlock’s barbs and other uncharitable comments that others had made in the past when he had been an adolescent. 

It had been neither of their faults, really – that caused the ruined mood. It is just a turbulent and ugly history rearing its head, reminding them of all the hurtful words and resentments that had come between the two of them in recent years. 

.

.

“Come fly with me.” Sherlock suggests when they had returned home in a somber mood. They are standing in the second-floor hallway – in their pyjamas, after having showered. Even he – his sweets-loving brother – had skipped dessert. “Tomorrow.” 

Mycroft sighs as his brother’s eyes implore him – desperate to make amends that didn’t really need to be made. It’s not something he does – flying. He had never learned how to – even though a young Sherlock had begged and pleaded with him many times to come fly with him during the summer months before their relationship had gone down the shitter. His gut had always told him that he is capable of handling a broom, considering that he can travel by  _ Floo _ and portkey. Flight had just never fascinated him, although he had always regretted not saying ‘yes’ to Sherlock’s requests – back in those days where Sherlock had looked up to him. Simply just to spend time with his brother.

“We will go to a National Park. It will be fun.” Sherlock adds. “And if we are late, I will send a message to Remus to go pick up Xavi from Anthea’s.” 

Mycroft can only nod when Sherlock embraces him. Little brother smells fantastic, with the fragrant hair products and the distinctive body wash that he uses. He hugs his brother back – his fingers stroking the expensive cotton shirt that covers Sherlock’s torso. They nuzzle at each other’s faces – letting their noses brush against each other, before Sherlock lets his lips touch Mycroft’s own – initiating a sweet kiss that makes Mycroft forget about the rest of the evening. 

They break apart all too soon, his brother’s gaze both soft and fond – the affection in his eyes almost too much for Mycroft to bear. Those plush lips curve into a smile, and Sherlock gently cups one of Mycroft’s cheeks and brushes a thumb along his bottom lip – a caress. They share a few more kisses, before Mycroft asks, “Bed?”

Sherlock grins, before disappearing into Mycroft’s bedroom. “Oh god, yes!” 

.

.

Mycroft kisses him when they are both sitting on the king-sized bed, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand. Sherlock allows Mycroft to lead him, not wanting to overstep his boundaries – and it is beyond nice to have big brother reverently touch him, explore him and love him. There is nothing urgent about their snogging, Sherlock feels like they could do this all night and not get bored – a marvel in itself, considering that the majority of Sherlock’s previous experiences had focused on getting straight to the point. 

Their lips playfully mingle with each other, before Mycroft takes advantage of Sherlock’s need to breathe by touching his tongue lightly with his own – sending a delightful frisson down Sherlock’s spine. The electrifying touch is enough to cause Sherlock to gasp – and he can feel his cock instantly stiffen in his pyjama bottoms. 

“Too much?” Mycroft asks, breaking apart – reusing words that Sherlock had thrown at him previously. 

“Mm… feels good. More.”

“You always want more…” 

Much to Sherlock’s surprise and delight, Mycroft pushes him firmly down into the mattress – straddling his thighs, before bending over to kiss him again. He groans when Mycroft inadvertently brushes against his crotch – and he gasps again when his brother deliberately grinds his own hard prick against Sherlock’s. Before Sherlock knows it, he is rubbing his pelvis against Mycroft’s and god – how in Merlin does this simple act arouse him so much? Or feel so damned good? 

They are both grunting and groaning; eventually panting and moaning as they increase their pace to chase more of this delicious friction – their movements growing more and more frantic with every second that elapses. It is Sherlock who comes first, with a loud gasp of surprise as his climax hits him – feeling his cum erupt into his pants, the hot stickiness clinging onto his skin, before Mycroft spills with a barely audible grunt. 

Sherlock feels drained and boneless and dazed with pleasure. His brother snuggles up to him, spooning him – and he knows that this is certainly something that he could get used to. Neither of them say a word, happy to enjoy the sensation of togetherness and soiled pants before they would have to go take a second shower.  

.

.

Venerable pine trees tower high above Mycroft’s head as he leans against a formidable trunk to regain his equilibrium after his brother had grabbed him by the arm and apparated them both to a tiny glade in the middle of nowhere. Side-along-apparition has a tendency to make Mycroft dizzy and slightly nauseous; they must have traveled a fair bit of distance, considering how vigorously his surroundings seem to spin around him. He greedily gulps the cool fresh air and wonders once again – where are they? 

At the breakfast table, Sherlock had been pouring over a book of British Apparition coordinates – a convenient handbook for rapid travel to places where a wizard or witch has never been. Every time Mycroft had attempted to lean over to sneak a peek – Sherlock had moved the book away. Infuriating little brothers! If Mycroft had been capable of using magic, he would have summoned the book out of Sherlock’s hands out of frustration. 

Okay. So he knows that he is somewhere in Great Britain. But, somehow – he doesn’t think that they are in England anymore, considering the flora. Perhaps Scotland? When he turns to look at his dark robe-clad brother, Sherlock had pulled out his broomstick from the folds of his robes and had returned it to its original size. It is a top-of-the-line Cleansweep that Mycroft had bought Sherlock the previous Christmas. 

“You want to sit in front, or at the back?” Sherlock asks.

“The back.” He gulps, suddenly feeling faint. 

Perhaps, his reluctance to fly stems from an unexpected fear of heights. Utterly ridiculous.

“Mycroft. It’s okay. I won’t let you fall.” Sherlock carefully takes his leather-clad hand and brings him over to the hovering broomstick. 

Sherlock mounts the broom first – slinging his right leg easily over the handle. Shakily, Mycroft sits behind him – glad for the modern-day cushioning charms that make sitting on a broom secure and comfortable. His brother draws his wand, tapping first on Mycroft’s clothes to cast a Temperature-Regulating charm. A comfortable warmth envelops Mycroft – perhaps a part of it is from his brother’s uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. He is not used to Sherlock being like this. Little brother taking the initiative to look after him. 

It had always been the other way around. 

“I am going to cast a disillusionment charm. But we will still be able to see the outlines of each other – and when we hit the Wizarding portion of the park – I can lift it. Or not.” Sherlock changes his mind, suddenly excited.

“Why would you not?” 

“Brother. Here be dragons.” Sherlock obviously means it in a literal sense. “Hebridean Blacks, Common Welsh – and the legends suggest that a few Norweigian Ridgebacks live here, amongst the forests and mountainous crags of Scotland. Maybe we can see one!”

No. Mycroft does not want to see a dragon. Those are bloody dangerous. Personally, he’d be happy with birdwatching – a tame little hobby he had picked up during his Oxford years. 

The tap of a wand on his forehead – feeling rather like a raw egg had been cracked over his skull – reminds him that his first hurdle is to handle flight on a broomstick. 

“Here we go.” Sherlock warns him. 

The broom slowly rises, forcing Mycroft to wrap his arms tightly around his brother’s waist for dear life. 

It’s strange, seeing his brother as a bluish, glowing outline. A modification of the original disillusionment charm. Mycroft presumes that everyone disillusioned with the same wand would be able to see each other. But in his arms – his brother feels solid, warm – a comforting presence despite being able to see directly through him. 

“Relax, big brother – this is fun! Besides, you fly in planes! You’ve even flown a few during your earlier days when you weren’t sitting behind a desk all day.” 

“This is different…” Mycroft mumbles as Sherlock brings them to crown-height, before accelerating gradually through the trees, rustling the branches like the wind as they go.

They fly – and gradually Mycroft feels comfortable enough to look down, and loosen his hold upon his brother. Skimming through groves of birch and of pine, he can spot red squirrels scampering across branches, grouse and deer ambling down below the forest floor. The trees themselves are teeming with life – tits, crows and waxwings going about their daily business. His brother picks up speed, and Mycroft almost shouts when he drops them suddenly – causing his poor belly to lurch – where their feet are barely a metre off the forest floor. 

He gasps when a lake comes into view – the water as still as a looking-glass – its colouration a brilliant blue-green, sparkling like a jewel in the wintry sunlight. Almost skimming the waters, Mycroft sees the ducks bobbing up and down in the barely perceptible waves and even an osprey diving for fish. It is strange, to hear the wind whistling loudly in his ears while feeling none of the chill, thanks to his brother’s charmwork. Sherlock traces the periphery of the lake for a minute or three before lifting up again, offering a view of the mountains that surround the space. They meet a fierce golden eagle, and Sherlock slows – content to follow the predator as it glides through the skies. 

“Don’t you dare swoop down when the eagle hunts – brother – or I swear I will end you.” Mycroft almost growls into Sherlock’s ear, once the wind quiets due to their leisurely pace.

“Mycroft, I would never do such a thing.” His voice is all innocent, but it betrays the fact that Sherlock had thought about it. “We are almost at the perimeter of the Wizarding portion. Ready?”

Before Mycroft could say another word, Sherlock accelerates again, leaving their eagle companion – and suddenly he feels the air crackle with magic as they fly through a powerful ward, cutting off this portion of the natural world from the muggles. In terms of landscape, it looks similar to the forest they had just left, but the animals are certainly different. Birds that Mycroft cannot name flit about the trees – a group of monkey-like creatures hoot and holler in the branches and when Sherlock soars above a crag – a family of hippogriffs lounge near the edge of a jaw-dropping cliff. His brother sticks to the crowns of the trees here – and Mycroft eventually could see why, when a small band of centaurs, armed with bows and arrows, stroll through the forest – searching for deer. Centaurs are fiercely territorial beings that are highly suspicious about the motives of humankind. No need to go searching for trouble here. They zoom past a series of waterfalls – water cascading downward from incredible height, before his brother rises up once again – following the contours of a mountain. 

Sherlock decelerates and then he whispers, taking one hand off the broom handle to point downwards. “Do you see that, Mycroft?” 

Smoke seems to rise from below. And, Mycroft shudders when he sees a large dark form of a dragon-like creature on the rocks down below. The beast appears to be charring a large animal of some sort with its fiery breath. 

“A Hebridean Black – I believe.”

They both watch as the fierce beast proceeds to tear apart its prey with its sharp teeth and a shaking motion of its jaws, before it engorges itself on the meat. 

Scary stuff, indeed. 

“Let’s go, little brother – let’s go have lunch in a quieter spot. On the Muggle side, preferably.”

Sherlock looks reluctant to go, but Mycroft breathes a deep sigh of relief when his brother makes a sharp turn, and heads back in the direction they had come from – periodically using his wand as a compass to ensure that they are going the right way.

.

.

“Snape.” Sherlock walks into the laboratory the next day, finding the dour-faced apprentice hunched over his lab bench, scribbling frantically away at his lab book – deriving an algorithm for a series of potions that he needs to brew over the next day or so. “I need to talk to you. About many things.” 

“Well – better make it quick, because I have a lot of things to brew today, Holmes.” Snape almost scowls, but reluctantly he follows Sherlock into the kitchenette. 

Sherlock eyes the kettle. Snape sighs, but obediently starts the preparation of tea. “What do you want to talk about?” 

“The Dark Lord’s wand. Dark Marks. And Albus.” Sherlock lists the most pressing things. “Tell me everything you know about the Dark Mark.” 

“The Dark Mark…” Snape’s hand goes involuntarily to his inner arm, where he is branded. “Was given to those in  _ his _ inner circle. I have one. Lucius has one. As do Bellatrix and her husband. Among others. The Dark Lord, Holmes, could reach out and touch one of our Dark Marks – and it would cause it to darken and burn. A sign of our fidelity; a reminder that we serve at his whims. If he wishes to, he can press on our marks – and it would cause the marks of his other followers to burn, and therefore – summon them from wherever they may be.”

“You would apparate to his side then? Is it voluntary? Or is it involuntary?” 

“Instead of focusing on coordinates like we do for regular Apparition – we focus on the burn itself – and it would take us...  to  _ his  _ side. It is voluntary, although tardiness means the burn intensifies in strength – the only relief for the pain is when we finally obey. It’s almost… pleasurable.” Snape’s lips twist into a sneer. 

Of contempt. Or of disgust… Sherlock has no clue. 

Snape brings a tea tray over, bearing two porcelain cups filled with Earl Grey. Sherlock sprinkles some sugar from the sugar bowl into his teacup, while Snape adds a dash of milk to his own. 

“Think about this carefully, Snape. Is it possible for Voldemort to be selective about who he summons by using this method?”

“Of course. Sometimes he would only want meetings with one or two of us – so it would make sense for him to be able to summon us individually. Now… tell me Holmes – why do you want to know this?”

“I’ve been at a loss…” Sherlock admits. “On how to find Peter Pettigrew. And then… when we found Voldemort’s wand, I thought perhaps there is a chance that I could take advantage of the Dark Mark –”

“No way!” Snape looks almost indignant. Insulted even. Sherlock finds it terribly amusing. “That the Dark Lord would sully his mark on that spineless –”

“Considering that Pettigrew was part of one of Voldemort’s top secret plans… I think the odds are great that he was branded with the Dark Mark. It would make sense. It would be done in return for his initial betrayal – his reward would be that he be made a member of Voldemort’s inner circle. That he would be recognized and valued. Certainly, it would keep him loyal… and afraid.” Sherlock takes a sip of his tea, before looking excited. “Come, Snape – let’s give it a try!”

“You are not touching my Dark Mark!” Snape exclaims, looking horrified. “Especially for Black’s benefit.” His tone drips in disgust.

What did Black ever do to this man? Sherlock could deduce that Snape hates Black the most out of the self-styled Marauders. 

“Come on, come on! For science! Aren’t you at least curious to see if we could hijack the Dark Lord’s web?” Sherlock offers, appealing to the apprentice’s scientific mind. “We better go somewhere quiet, and somewhere where we could disapparate just in case we summon the entire inner circle by mistake.” 

“Considering that the Dark Lord is gone – I am sure that –” 

“Well, you did mention that the burning would get so bad that they would eventually –”

Finally Snape concedes, seeing that the easiest way to get Sherlock out of his greasy hair is to agree to this experiment. “Okay. Fine. Let’s go.” 

Snape and Sherlock both get up, after taking one last sip from their teacups. Before they head off for the Apparition point, they both grab their cloaks from the coat stand. 

.

.

The graveyard at Little Hangleton looks no less creepier in broad daylight. There is no sign of human life anywhere within the vicinity. Snape sits on one of the unmarked gravestones, with his arm out of the sleeve of his robe – his cream-coloured shirt sleeve rolled up meticulously, exposing his faded Dark Mark on his inner forearm. With a reluctance, Sherlock pulls out Voldemort’s wand ( _ his _ wand now) – gifted to him by the whims of fate. Not that Sherlock held too much stock in fate anyways. Or destiny for that matter. Carefully, he unravels the cloth which keeps the wand covered – a barrier between the instrument and his bare skin. Taking a breath, he cautiously wraps his hand around the ivory handle, enduring the nauseatingly powerful magic that the wand exudes. 

He can feel the eyes of the scythe wielding angel bore into his skull from behind. It feels as if he is being watched, but Sherlock knows that there is no one around for kilometres. Considering that Voldemort had used his fingers, Sherlock takes another shuddering breath and brings his index finger close to Snape’s pale skin – hovering over the mark. He could already feel the magic radiating from it. And then, he touches it – and  _ sees  _ its nature for the first time.  Putrid tangles of magic woven into Snape’s skin – weakened, but pulsating – as if it is alive. Like the hyphae of a fungus (nature’s parasite). He follows the tendrils downward, wrapping around Snape’s forearm vasculature, sapping minute quantities of magic from its host. 

It is a web. Sherlock can see that now. Each chosen Death Eater bears such a parasitic Mark and somehow – all of them are linked to one another; each one serving as a node in this elaborate network. However, the network is greatly diminished in power – Sherlock could remember how the Dark Mark had felt like – before Voldemort’s downfall. But he hadn’t been able to see the details, which is a privilege that being the Master of Voldemort’s wand had seemed to grant him. So – Sherlock feeds it by pouring in his own magic. 

Snape’s face contorts in agony – but he bears it, as if used to such pain. Well… of course he is used to such pain – Sherlock realizes, this is exactly how Voldemort had done things back in the day. With his offering, the Mark seems to darken – appearing more vivid – more alive on Snape’s flesh. 

“Sherlock, please stop!” Snape finally gasps, using his given name, having reached the end of his limits to endure.

Sherlock cuts off the flow of his magical energy. The pigments of the Mark fade a bit over the next few seconds, but it is still far more vibrant than before. Gently, he presses his index finger into the Dark Mark – feeling once more the tendrils – now much stronger. And instinctively, Sherlock realizes that there are tendrils – or rather strings – that he could pull, and he understands now – how Voldemort is able to summon different members of his inner circle to his side as required. Alas, he would need to strengthen the Mark further – to perhaps, get an inkling to determine which ‘string’ he would need to tug to lure a rat into his snare. 

“I will need to repeat this, maybe two more times.” Sherlock breaks the bad news.

“Do what you must.” Snape says tonelessly. “But can I please have a few hours to recover?” Clasping his right hand to his Dark Mark, he rubs at it soothingly. “It burns even now, after you have stopped touching it.” He then stares at the Mark. “It’s darkened – almost to the degree it was when  _ he  _ was still here. I just wonder…”

“I will let you be till tomorrow.” Sherlock offers, charitably. “I understand that you have a deadline to brew all of this –”

“You don’t even help anymore, after Xavi…” Snape complains. “Not all of us have connections to moneybags, you see.”

“I will brew with you for the afternoon, then. It’s the least I can do.” Sherlock sighs deeply – realizing that it would be necessary to purchase Snape’s goodwill for the next little while.


End file.
